THE  HEART  OF  THE  HILLS 


BOOKS  BY  JOHN  FOX,  JR. 

PUBLISHED  BY  CHARLES   SCRIBNER'S   SONS 


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"  Ef  anything  happens  " — he  paused,  and  tha  girl  nodded  her 
understanding — "  you  an'  me  air  goin'  to  stay  hyeh  in  the 
mountains  an'  git  married  " 


IN 
GRATEFUL  MEMORY 

OF 

MY  FATHER 

WHO    LOVED    THE    GREAT    MOTHER,    HER    FORMS, 

HER    MOODS,    HER    WAYS. 

TO    THE    END    SHE    LEFT    HIM    THE    JOY    OF    YOUTH 
IN    THE    COMING    OF    SPRING 


June  28,  1912. 


25R0.19 


ILLUSTRATIONS 


"Ef  anything  happens" — he  paused  and  the  girl  nodded 
her  understanding — "you  an'  me  air  goin'  to  stay 
hyeh  in  the  mountains  an*  git  married  "  .  Frontispiece 

Facing 
page 

"Hit  ain't  no  use, Mavis,"  he  said;  "the  law's  agin  us  an' 

we  got  to  wait" 62 

"I  want  you  to  promise  me  not — not  to  shoot  anybody  "     126 

"I  want  to  know  just  what  to  do  with  that  land  o'  mine. 

I  ain't  forgot  what  you  told  me  " 184 

There  was  the  jostling  of  bodies,  rushing  of  feet,  and 
crowding  of  cursing  men  to  the  common  centre  of 
excitement 242 

"You  hain't  goin'  to  give  the  boy  up,  Jason?"     .     .     .     262 

Mavis  on  a  pillion  behind  in  laughing  acceptance  of  the 

old  pioneer  custom 392 


THE 
HEART  OF  THE  HILLS 

i 


T^WIN  spirals  of  blue  smoke  rose  on  either 
side  of  the  spur,  crept  tendril-like  up  two 
dark  ravines,  and  clearing  the  feathery  green  crests 
of  the  trees,  drifted  lazily  on  upward  until,  high 
above,  they  melted  shyly  together  and  into  the 
haze  that  veiled  the  drowsy  face  of  the  mountain. 
Each  rose  from  a  little  log  cabin  clinging  to  the 
side  of  a  little  hollow  at  the  head  of  a  little  creek. 
About  each  cabin  was  a  rickety  fence,  a  patch  of 
garden,  and  a  little  cleared  hill-side,  rocky,  full  of 
stumps,  and  crazily  traced  with  thin  green  spears 
of  corn.  On  one  hill-side  a  man  was  at  work  with 
a  hoe,  and  on  the  other,  over  the  spur,  a  boy  — 
both  barefooted,  and  both  in  patched  jean  trou 
sers  upheld  by  a  single  suspender  that  made  a  wet 
line  over  a  sweaty  cotton  shift:  the  man,  tall, 
lean,  swarthy,  grim;  the  boy  grim  and  dark,  too, 
and  with  a  face  that  was  prematurely  aged.  At 
the  man's  cabin  a  little  girl  in  purple  homespun 
was  hurrying  in  and  out  the  back  door  clearing 

I 


~'tHE  HEART  OF  THE  HILLS 

up  after  the  noonday  meal;  at  the  boy's,  a  comely 
woman  with  masses  of  black  hair  sat  in  the  porch 
with  her  hands  folded,  and  lifting  her  eyes  now 
and  then  to  the  top  of  the  spur.  Of  a  sudden  the 
man  impatiently  threw  down  his  hoe,  but  through 
the  battered  straw  hat  that  bobbed  up  and  down 
on  the  boy's  head,  one  lock  tossed  on  like  a  jet- 
black  plume  until  he  reached  the  end  of  his  strag 
gling  row  of  corn.  There  he  straightened  up  and 
brushed  his  earth-stained  fingers  across  a  dull- 
red  splotch  on  one  cheek  of  his  sullen  set  face. 
His  heavy  lashes  lifted  and  he  looked  long  at  the 
woman  on  the  porch — looked  without  anger  now 
and  with  a  new  decision  in  his  steady  eyes.  He  was 
getting  a  little  too  big  to  be  struck  by  a  woman, 
even  if  she  were  his  own  mother,  and  nothing  like 
that  must  happen  again. 

A  woodpecker  was  impudently  tapping  the  top 
of  a  dead  burnt  tree  near  by,  and  the  boy  started 
to  reach  for  a  stone,  but  turned  instead  and  went 
doggedly  to  work  on  the  next  row,  which  took 
him  to  the  lower  corner  of  the  garden  fence,  where 
the  ground  was  black  and  rich.  There,  as  he 
sank  his  hoe  with  the  last  stroke  around  the  last 
hill  of  corn,  a  fat  fishing-worm  wriggled  under  his 
very  eyes,  and  the  growing  man  lapsed  swiftly 
into  the  boy  again.  He  gave  another  quick  dig, 
the  earth  gave  up  two  more  squirming  treasures, 
and  with  a  joyful  gasp  he  stood  straight  again — 
his  eyes  roving  as  though  to  search  all  creation 

2 


THE  HEART  OF  THE  HILLS 

for  help  against  the  temptation  that  now  was  his. 
His  mother  had  her  face  uplifted  toward  the  top 
of  the  spur;  and  following  her  gaze,  he  saw  a  tall 
mountaineer  slouching  down  the  path.  Quickly 
he  crouched  behind  the  fence,  and  the  aged  look 
came  back  into  his  face.  He  did  not  approve  of 
that  man  coming  over  there  so  often,  kinsman 
though  he  was,  and  through  the  palings  he  saw  his 
mother's  face  drop  quickly  and  her  hands  moving 
uneasily  in  her  lap.  And  when  the  mountaineer 
sat  down  on  the  porch  and  took  off  his  hat  to  wipe 
his  forehead,  he  noticed  that  his  mother  had  on  a 
newly  bought  store  dress,  and  that  the  man's  hair 
was  wet  with  something  more  than  water.  The 
thick  locks  had  been  combed  and  were  glistening 
with  oil,  and  the  boy  knew  these  facts  for  signs 
of  courtship;  and  though  he  was  contemptuous, 
they  furnished  the  excuse  he  sought  and  made 
escape  easy.  Noiselessly  he  wielded  his  hoe  for 
a  few  moments,  scooped  up  a  handful  of  soft  dirt, 
meshed  the  worms  in  it,  and  slipped  the  squirm 
ing  mass  into  his  pocket.  Then  he  crept  stooping 
along  the  fence  to  the  rear  of  the  house,  squeezed 
himself  between  two  broken  palings,  and  sneaked 
on  tiptoe  to  the  back  porch.  Gingerly  he  de 
tached  a  cane  fishing-pole  from  a  bunch  that  stood 
upright  in  a  corner  and  was  tiptoeing  away,  when 
with  another  thought  he  stopped,  turned  back, 
and  took  down  from  the  wall  a  bow  and  arrow 
7ith  a  steel  head  around  which  was  wound  a  long 

3 


THE  HEART  OF  THE  HILLS 

hempen  string.  Cautiously  then  he  crept  back 
along  the  fence,  slipped  behind  the  barn  into  the 
undergrowth  and  up  a  dark  little  ravine  toward 
the  green  top  of  the  spur.  Up  there  he  turned 
from  the  path  through  the  thick  bushes  into  an 
open  space,  walled  by  laurel-bushes,  hooted  three 
times  surprisingly  like  an  owl,  and  lay  contentedly 
down  on  a  bed  of  moss.  Soon  his  ear  caught  the 
sound  of  light  footsteps  coming  up  the  spur  on  the 
other  side,  the  bushes  parted  in  a  moment  more, 
and  a  little  figure  in  purple  homespun  slipped 
through  them,  and  with  a  flushed,  panting  face 
and  dancing  eyes  stood  beside  him. 

The  boy  nodded  his  head  sidewise  toward  his 
own  home,  and  the  girl  silently  nodded  hers  up 
and  down  in  answer.  Her  eyes  caught  sight  of 
the  bow  and  arrow  on  the  ground  beside  him  and 
lighted  eagerly,  for  she  knew  then  that  the  fishing- 
pole  was  for  her.  Without  a  word  they  slipped 
through  the  bushes  and  down  the  steep  side  of  the 
spur  to  a  little  branch  which  ran  down  into  a  creek 
that  wound  a  tortuous  way  into  the  Cumberland. 


II 

ON  the  other  side,  too,  a  similar  branch  ran 
down  into  another  creek  which  looped  around 
the  long  slanting  side  of  the  spur  and  emptied, 
too,  into  the  Cumberland.  At  the  mouth  of  each 
creek  the  river  made  a  great  bend,  and  in  the 
sweep  of  each  were  rich  bottom  lands.  A  cen 
tury  before,  a  Hawn  had  settled  in  one  bottom, 
the  lower  one,  and  a  Honeycutt  in  the  other.  As 
each  family  multiplied,  more  land  was  cleared 
up  each  creek  by  sons  and  grandsons  until  in  each 
cove  a  clan  was  formed.  No  one  knew  when  and 
for  what  reason  an  individual  Hawn  and  a  Honey 
cutt  had  first  clashed,  but  the  clash  was  of  course 
inevitable.  Equally  inevitable  was  it,  too,  that 
the  two  clans  should  take  the  quarrel  up,  and  for 
half  a  century  the  two  families  had,  with  inter 
mittent  times  of  truce,  been  traditional  enemies. 
The  boy's  father,  Jason  Hawn,  had  married  a 
Honeycutt  in  a  time  of  peace,  and,  when  the  war 
opened  again,  was  regarded  as  a  deserter,  and  had 
been  forced  to  move  over  the  spur  to  the  Honey 
cutt  side.J  The  girl's  father,  Steve  Hawn,  a  ne'er- 
do-well  and  the  son  of  a  ne'er-do-well,  had  for  his 
inheritance  wild  lands,  steep,  supposedly  worth 
less,  and  near  the  head  of  the  Honeycutt  cove. 

5 


THE  HEART  OF  THE  HILLS 

Little  Jason's  father,  when  he  quarrelled  with  his 
kin,  could  afford  to  buy  only  cheap  land  on  the 
Honeycutt  side,  and  thus  the  homes  of  the  two 
were  close  to  the  high  heart  of  the  mountain,  and 
separated  only  by  the  bristling  crest  of  the  spur. 
In  time  the  boy's  father  was  slain  from  ambush, 
and  it  was  a  Hawn,  the  Honeycutts  claimed,  who 
had  made  him  pay  the  death  price  of  treachery 
to  his  own  kin.  But  when  peace  came,  this  fact 
did  not  save  the  lad  from  taunt  and  suspicion  from 
the  children  of  the  Honeycutt  tribe,  and  being  a 
favorite  with  his  Grandfather  Hawn  down  on  the 
river,  and  harshly  treated  by  his  Honeycutt 
mother,  his  life  on  the  other  side  in  the  other  cove 
was  a  hard  one;  so  his  heart  had  gone  back  to  his 
own  people  and,  having  no  companions,  he  had 
made  a  playmate  of  his  little  cousin,  Mavis,  over 
the  spur.  In  time  her  mother  had  died,  and  in 
time  her  father,  Steve,  had  begun  slouching  over 
the  spur  to  court  the  widow — his  cousin's  widow, 
Martha  Hawn.  Straightway  the  fact  had  caused 
no  little  gossip  up  and  down  both  creeks,  good- 
natured  gossip  at  first,  but,  now  that  the  relations 
between  the  two  clans  were  once  more  strained, 
there  was  open  censure,  and  on  that  day  when  all 
the  men  of  both  factions  had  gone  to  the  county- 
seat,  the  boy  knew  that  Steve  Hawn  had  stayed 
at  home  for  no  other  reason  than  to  make  his 
visit  that  day  secret;  and  the  lad's  brain,  as  he 
strode  ahead  of  his  silent  little  companion,  was 

6 


THE  HEART  OF  THE  HILLS 

busy  with  the  significance  of  what  was  sure  to 
come. 

At  the  mouth  of  the  branch,  the  two  came  upon 
a  road  that  also  ran  down  to  the  river,  but  they 
kept  on  close  to  the  bank  of  the  stream  which 
widened  as  they  travelled — the  boy  striding  ahead 
without  looking  back,  the  girl  following  like  a 
shadow.  Still  again  they  crossed  the  road,  where 
it  ran  over  the  foot  of  the  spur  and  turned  down 
into  a  deep  bowl  filled  to  the  brim  with  bush  and 
tree,  and  there,  where  a  wide  pool  lay  asleep  in 
thick  shadow,  the  lad  pulled  forth  the  ball  of 
earth  and  worms  from  his  pocket,  dropped  them 
with  the  fishing-pole  to  the  ground,  and  turned 
ungallantly  to  his  bow  and  arrow.  By  the  time 
he  had  strung  it,  and  had  tied  one  end  of  the 
string  to  the  shaft  of  the  arrow  and  the  other  about 
his  wrist,  the  girl  had  unwound  the  coarse  fishing- 
line,  had  baited  her  own  hook,  and,  squatted  on 
her  heels,  was  watching  her  cork  with  eager  eyes; 
but  when  the  primitive  little  hunter  crept  to  the 
lower  end  of  the  pool,  and  was  peering  with  Indian 
caution  into  the  depths,  her  eyes  turned  to  him. 

"Watch  out  thar!"  he  called,  sharply. 

Her  cork  bobbed,  sank,  and  when,  with  closed 
eyes,  she  jerked  with  all  her  might,  a  big  shining 
chub  rose  from  the  water  and  landed  on  the  bank 
beside  her.  She  gave  a  subdued  squeal  of  joy, 
but  the  boy's  face  was  calm  as  a  star.  Minnows 
like  that  were  all  right  for  a  girl  to  catch  and  even 

7 


THE  HEART  OF  THE  HILLS 

for  him  to  eat,  but  he  was  after  game  for  a  man. 
A  moment  later  he  heard  another  jerk  and  an 
other  fish  was  flopping  on  the  bank,  and  this  time 
she  made  no  sound,  but  only  flashed  her  triumph 
ant  eyes  upon  him.  At  the  third  fish,  she  turned 
her  eyes  for  approval — and  got  none;  and  at  the 
fourth,  she  did  not  look  up  at  all,  for  he  was  walk 
ing  toward  her. 

"You  air  skeerin'  the  big  uns,"  he  said  shortly, 
and  as  he  passed  he  pulled  his  Barlow  knife  from 
his  pocket  and  dropped  it  at  her  feet.  She  rose 
obediently,  and  with  no  sign  of  protest  began 
gathering  an  apronful  of  twigs  and  piling  them 
for  a  fire.  Then  she  began  scraping  one  of  the 
fish,  and  when  it  was  cleaned  she  lighted  the  fire. 
The  blaze  crackled  merrily,  the  blue  smoke  rose 
like  some  joyous  spirit  loosed  for  upward  flight, 
and  by  the  time  the  fourth  fish  was  cleaned,  a 
little  bed  of  winking  coals  was  ready  and  soon 
a  gentle  sizzling  assailed  the  boy's  ears,  and  a 
scent  made  his  nostrils  quiver  and  set  his  stomach 
a-hungering.  But  still  he  gave  no  sign  of  interest 
— even  when  the  little  girl  spoke  at  last: 

"Dinner's  ready." 

He  did  not  look  around,  for  he  had  crouched, 
his  body  taut  from  head  to  foot,  and  he  might 
have  been  turned  suddenly  to  stone  for  all  the 
sign  of  life  he  gave,  and  the  little  girl  too  was  just 
as  motionless.  Then  she  saw  the  little  statue 
come  slowly  back  to  quivering  life.  She  saw  the 

8 


THE  HEART  OF  THE  HILLS 

bow  bend,  the  shaft  of  the  arrow  drawing  close 
to  the  boy's  paling  cheek,  there  was  a  rushing  hiss 
through  the  air,  a  burning  hiss  in  the  water,  a 
mighty  bass  leaped  from  the  convulsed  surface 
and  shot  to  the  depths  again,  leaving  the  head 
less  arrow  afloat.  The  boy  gave  one  sharp  cry 
and  lapsed  into  his  stolid  calm  again. 

The  little  girl  said  nothing,  for  there  is  no  balm 
for  the  tragedy  of  the  big  fish  that  gets  away. 
Slowly  he  untied  the  string  from  his  reddened 
wrist  and  pulled  the  arrow  in.  Slowly  he  turned 
and  gazed  indifferently  at  the  four  crisp  fish  on 
four  dry  twigs  with  four  pieces  of  corn  pone  lying 
on  the  grass  near  them,  and  the  little  girl  squat 
ting  meekly  and  waiting,  as  the  woman  should 
for  her  working  lord.  With  his  Barlow  knife  he 
slowly  speared  a  corn  pone,  picking  up  a  fish  with 
the  other  hand,  and  still  she  waited  until  he  spoke. 

"Take  out,  Mavie,"  he  said  with  great  gravity 
and  condescension,  and  then  his  knife  with  a  gen 
erous  mouthful  on  its  point  stopped  in  the  air, 
his  startled  eyes  widened,  and  the  little  girl  shrank 
cowering  behind  him.  A  heavy  footfall  had 
crunched  on  the  quiet  air,  the  bushes  had  parted, 
and  a  huge  mountaineer  towered  above  them  with 
a  Winchester  over  his  shoulder  and  a  kindly  smile 
under  his  heavy  beard.  The  boy  was  startled — 
not  frightened. 

"Hello,  Babe!"  he  said  coolly.  "Whut  devil- 
mint  you  up  to  now?" 

9 


THE  HEART  OF  THE  HILLS 

The  giant  smiled  uneasily: 

"I'm  keepin'  out  o'  the  sun  an'  a-takin'  keer  o' 
my  health,"  he  said,  and  his  eyes  dropped  hun 
grily  to  the  corn  pone  and  fried  fish,  but  the  boy 
shook  his  head  sturdily. 

"You  can't  git  nothin'  to  eat  from  me,  Babe 
Honeycutt." 

"Now,  looky  hyeh,  Jason " 

"Not  a  durn  bite,"  said  the  boy  firmly,  "even 
if  you  air  my  mammy's  brother.  I'm  a  Hawn 
now,  I  want  ye  to  know,  an'  I  ain't  goin'  to  have 
my  folks  say  I  was  feedin'  an'  harborin'  a  Honey 
cutt — 'specially  you." 

It  would  have  been  humorous  to  either  Hawn 
or  Honeycutt  to  hear  the  big  man  plead,  but  not 
to  the  girl,  though  he  was  an  enemy,  and  had  but 
recently  wounded  a  cousin  of  hers,  and  was  hid 
ing  from  her  own  people,  for  her  warm  little  heart 
was  touched,  and  big  Babe  saw  it  and  left  his 
mournful  eyes  on  hers. 

"An'  I'm  a-goin'  to  tell  whar  I've  seed  ye," 
went  on  the  boy  savagely,  but  the  girl  grabbed 
up  two  fish  and  a  corn  pone  and  thrust  them  out 
to  the  huge  hairy  hand  eagerly  stretched  out. 

"Now,  git  away,"  she  said  breathlessly,  "git 
away — quick!" 

"Mavis!"  yelled  the  boy. 

"Shet  up!"  she  cried,  and  the  lips  of  the  routed 
boy  fell  apart  in  sheer  amazement,  for  never  be 
fore  had  she  made  the  slightest  question  of  his 

10 


THE  HEART  OF  THE  HILLS 

tyrannical  authority,  and  then  her  eyes  blazed  at 
the  big  Honeycutt  and  she  stamped  her  foot. 
"I'd  give  'em  to  the  meanest  dog  in  these  moun 


tains." 


The  big  man  turned  to  the  boy. 

"Ishedeadyit?" 

"No,  he  ain't  dead  yit,"  said  the  boy  roughly. 

"Son,"  said  the  mountaineer  quietly,  "you  tell 
whutever  you  please  about  me." 

The  curiously  gentle  smile  had  never  left  the 
bearded  lips,  but  in  his  voice  a  slight  proud  change 
was  perceptible. 

"An'  you  can  take  back  yo'  corn  pone,  honey." 

Then  dropping  the  food  in  his  hand  back  to 
the  ground,  he  noiselessly  melted  into  the  bushes 
again. 

At  once  the  boy  went  to  work  on  his  neglected 
corn-bread  and  fish,  but  the  girl  left  hers  un 
touched  where  they  lay.  He  ate  silently,  staring 
at  the  water  below  him,  nor  did  the  little  girl  turn 
her  eyes  his  way,  for  in  the  last  few  minutes  some 
subtle  change  in  their  relations  had  taken  place, 
and  both  were  equally  surprised  and  mystified. 
Finally,  the  lad  ventured  a  sidewise  glance  at  her 
beneath  the  brim  of  his  hat  and  met  a  shy,  ap 
pealing  glance  once  more.  At  once  he  felt  ag 
grieved  and  resentful  and  turned  sullen. 

"He  throwed  it  back  in  yo'  face,"  he  said. 
"You  oughtn't  to  'a'  done  it." 

Little  Mavis  made  no  answer. 
ii 


THE  HEART  OF  THE  HILLS 

"You're  nothin'  but  a  gal,  an'  nobody'll  hold 
nothin'  agin  you,  but  with  my  mammy  a  Honey- 
cutt  an'  me  a-livin'  on  the  Honeycutt  side,  you 
mought  'a'  got  me  into  trouble  with  my  own 
folks."  The  girl  knew  how  Jason  had  been  teased 
and  taunted  and  his  life  made  miserable  up  and 
down  the  Honeycutt  creek,  and  her  brown  face 
grew  wistful  and  her  chin  quivered. 

"I  jes'  couldn't  he'p  it,  Jason,"  she  said  weakly, 
and  the  little  man  threw  up  his  hands  with  a  gest 
ure  that  spoke  his  hopelessness  over  her  sex  in 
general,  and  at  the  same  time  an  ungracious  accept 
ance  of  the  terrible  calamity  she  had  perhaps 
left  dangling  over  his  head.  He  clicked  the  blade 
of  his  Barlow  knife  and  rose. 

"We  better  be  movin'  now,"  he  said,  with  a 
resumption  of  his  old  authority,  and  pulling  in 
the  line  and  winding  it  about  the  cane  pole,  he 
handed  it  to  her  and  started  back  up  the  spur 
with  Mavis  trailing  after,  his  obedient  shadow 
once  more. 

On  top  of  the  spur  Jason  halted.  A  warm  blue 
haze  transfused  with  the  slanting  sunlight  over 
lay  the  flanks  of  the  mountains  which,  fold  after 
fold,  rippled  up  and  down  the  winding  river  and 
above  the  green  crests  billowed  on  and  on  into 
the  unknown.  Nothing  more  could  happen  to 
them  if  they  went  home  two  hours  later  than 
would  surely  happen  if  they  went  home  now,  the 
boy  thought,  and  he  did  not  want  to  go  home 

12 


THE  HEART  OF  THE  HILLS 

now.  For  a  moment  he  stood  irresolute,  and  then, 
far  down  the  river,  he  saw  two  figures  on  horse 
back  come  into  sight  from  a  strip  of  woods,  move 
slowly  around  a  curve  of  the  road,  and  disappear 
into  the  woods  again. 

One  rode  sidewise,  both  looked  absurdly  small, 
and  even  that  far  away  the  boy  knew  them  for 
strangers.  He  did  not  call  Mavis's  attention  to 
them — he  had  no  need — for  when  he  turned,  her 
face  showed  that  she  too  had  seen  them,  and  she 
was  already  moving  forward  to  go  with  him  down 
the  spur.  Once  or  twice,  as  they  went  down,  each 
glimpsed  the  coming  "furriners"  dimly  through 
the  trees;  they  hurried  that  they  might  not  miss 
the  passing,  and  on  a  high  bank  above  the  river 
road  they  stopped,  standing  side  by  side,  the  eyes 
of  both  fixed  on  the  arched  opening  of  the  trees 
through  which  the  strangers  must  first  come  into 
sight.  A  ringing  laugh  from  the  green  depths 
heralded  their  .coming,  and  then  in  the  archway 
were  framed  a  boy  and  a  girl  and  two  ponies — 
all  from  another  world.  The  two  watchers  stared 
silently — the  boy  noting  that  the  other  boy  wore 
a  cap  and  long  stockings,  the  girl  that  a  strange 
hat  hung  down  the  back  of  the  other  girl's  head 
— stared  with  widening  eyes  at  a  sight  that  was 
never  for  them  before.  And  then  the  strangers 
saw  them — the  boy  with  his  bow  and  arrow,  the 
girl  with  a  fishing-pole — and  simultaneously  pulled 
their  ponies  in  before  the  halting  gaze  that  was 

13 


THE  HEART  OF  THE  HILLS 

levelled  at  them  from  the  grassy  bank.  Then 
they  all  looked  at  one  another  until  boy's  eyes 
rested  on  boy's  eyes  for  question  and  answer, 
and  the  stranger  lad's  face  flashed  with  quick 
humor. 

"Were  you  looking  for  us?"  he  asked,  for  just 
so  it  seemed  to  him,  and  the  little  mountaineer 
nodded. 

"Yes,"  he  said  gravely. 

The  stranger  boy  laughed. 

"What  can  we  do  for  you?" 

Now,  little  Jason  had  answered  honestly  and 
literally,  and  he  saw  now  that  he  was  being  trifled 
with. 

"A  feller  what  wears  gal's  stockings  can't  do 
nothin'  fer  me,"  he  said  coolly. 

Instantly  the  other  lad  made  as  though  he 
would  jump  from  his  pony,  but  a  cry  of  protest 
stopped  him,  and  for  a  moment  he  glared  his  hot 
resentment  of  the  insult;  then  he  dug  his  heels 
into  his  pony's  sides. 

"Come  on,  Marjorie,"  he  said,  and  with  dig 
nity  the  two  little  "furriners"  rode  on,  never  look 
ing  back  even  when  they  passed  over  the  hill. 

"He  didn't  mean  nothin',"  said  Mavis,  "an' 
you  oughtn't  -  " 

Jason  turned  on  her  in  a  fury. 

"I  seed  you  a-lookin'  at  him!" 

"'Tain't  so!  I  seed  you  a-lookin'  at  her!"  she 
retorted,  but  her  eyes  fell  before  his  accusing 


V 


THE  HEART  OF  THE  HILLS 

gaze,  and  she  began  worming  a  bare  toe  into  the 
sand. 

"Air  ye  goin'  home  now?"  she  asked,  presently. 

"No,"  he  said  shortly,  "I'm  a-goin'  atter  him. 
You  go  on  home." 

The  boy  started  up  the  hill,  and  in  a  moment 
the  girl  was  trotting  after  him.  He  turned  when 
he  heard  the  patter  of  her  feet. 

"Huh!"  he  grunted  contemptuously,  and  kept 
on.  At  the  top  of  the  hill  he  saw  several  men 
on  horseback  in  the  bend  of  the  road  below,  and 
he  turned  into  the  bushes. 

"They  mought  tell  on  us,"  explained  Jason, 
and  hiding  bow  and  arrow  and  fishing-pole,  they 
slipped  along  the  flank  of  the  spur  until  they  stood 
on  a  point  that  commanded  the  broad  river-bot 
tom  at  the  mouth  of  the  creek. 

By  the  roadside  down  there,  was  the  ancestral 
home  of  the  Hawns  with  an  orchard  about  it,  a 
big  garden,  a  stable  huge  for  that  part  of  the 
world,  and  a  meat-house  where  for  three-quarters 
of  a  century  there  had  always  been  things  "hung 
up."  The  old  log  house  in  which  Jason  and 
Mavis's  great-great-grandfather  had  spent  his 
pioneer  days  had  been  weather-boarded  and  was 
invisible  somewhere  in  the  big  frame  house  that, 
trimmed  with  green  and  porticoed  with  startling 
colors,  glared  white  in  the  afternoon  sun.  They 
could  see  the  two  ponies  hitched  at  the  front  gate. 
Two  horsemen  were  hurrying  along  the  river  road 

15 


THE  HEART  OF  THE  HILLS 

beneath  them,  and  Jason  recognized  one  as  his 
uncle,  Arch  Hawn,  who  lived  in  the  county-seat, 
who  bought  "wild"  lands  and  was  always  bring 
ing  in  "furriners,"  to  whom  he  sold  them  again. 
The  man  with  him  was  a  stranger,  and  Jason  un 
derstood  better  now  what  was  going  on.  Arch 
Hawn  was  responsible  for  the  presence  of  the  man 
and  of  the  girl  and  that  boy  in  the  "gal's  stock 
ings,"  and  all  of  them  would  probably  spend  the 
night  at  his  grandfather's  house.  A  farm-hand 
was  leading  the  ponies  to  the  barn  now,  and  Jason 
and  Mavis  saw  Arch  and  the  man  with  him  throw 
themselves  hurriedly '  from  their  horses,  for  the 
sun  had  disappeared  in  a  black  cloud  and  a  mist 
of  heavy  rain  was  sweeping  up  the  river.  It  was 
coming  fast,  and  the  boy  sprang  through  the 
bushes  and,  followed  by  Mavis,  flew  down  the 
road.  The  storm  caught  them,  and  in  a  few  mo 
ments  the  stranger  boy  and  girl  looking  through 
the  front  door  at  the  sweeping  gusts,  saw  two 
drenched  and  bedraggled  figures  slip  shyly  through 
the  front  gate  and  around  the  corner  to  the  back 
of  the  house. 


16 


Ill 


two  little  strangers  sat  in  cane-bottomed 
chairs  before  the  open  door,  still  looking 
about  them  with  curious  eyes  at  the  strings  of 
things  hanging  from  the  smoke-browned  rafters 
—  beans,  red  pepper-pods,  and  twists  of  home 
grown  tobacco,  the  girl's  eyes  taking  in  the  old 
spinning-wheel  in  the  corner,  the  piles  of  brill 
iantly  figured  quilts  between  the  foot-boards  of 
the  two  beds  ranged  along  one  side  of  the  room, 
and  the  boy's,  catching  eagerly  the  butt  of  a  big 
revolver  projecting  from  the  mantel-piece,  a  Win 
chester  standing  in  one  corner,  a  long,  old-fash 
ioned  squirrel  rifle  athwart  a  pair  of  buck  antlers 
over  the  front  door,  and  a  bunch  of  cane  fishing- 
poles  aslant  the  wall  of  the  back  porch.  Pres 
ently  a  slim,  drenched  figure  slipped  quietly  in, 
then  another,  and  Mavis  stood  on  one  side  of  the 
fire-place  and  little  Jason  on  the  other.  The  two 
girls  exchanged  a  swift  glance  and  Mavis's  eyes 
fell;  abashed,  she  knotted  her  hands  shyly  be 
hind  her  and  with  the  hollow  of  one  bare  foot 
rubbed  the  slender  arch  of  the  other.  The  stran 
ger  boy  looked  up  at  Jason  with  a  pleasant  glance 
of  recognition,  got  for  his  courtesy  a  sullen 

17 


THE  HEART  OF  THE  HILLS 

glare  that  travelled  from  his  broad  white  collar 
down  to  his  stockinged  legs,  and  his  face  flushed; 
he  would  have  trouble  with  that  mountain  boy. 
Before  the  fire  old  Jason  Hawn  stood,  and  through 
a  smoke  cloud  from  his  corn-cob  pipe  looked 
kindly  at  his  two  little  guests. 

" So  that's  yo'  boy  an'  gal?" 

"That's  my  son  Gray,"  said  Colonel  Pendleton. 

"And  that's  my  cousin  Marjorie,"  said  the  lad, 
and  Mavis  looked  quickly  to  little  Jason  for  rec 
ognition  of  this  similar  relationship  and  got  no 
answering  glance,  for  little  did  he  care  at  that 
moment  of  hostility  how  those  two  were  akin. 

"She's  my  cousin,  too,"  laughed  the  colonel, 
"but  she  always  calls  me  uncle." 

Old  Jason  turned  to  him. 

"Well,  we're  a  purty  rough  people  down  here, 
but  you're  welcome  to  all  we  got." 

"I've  found  that  out,"  laughed  Colonel  Pen 
dleton  pleasantly,  "everywhere." 

"I  wish  you  both  could  stay  a  long  time  with 
us,"  said  the  old  man  to  the  little  strangers. 
"Jason  here  would  take  Gray  fishin'  an*  hunting 
an'  Mavis  would  git  on  my  old  mare  an'  you  two 
could  jus'  go  flyin'  up  an*  down  the  road.  You 
could  have  a  mighty  good  time  if  hit  wasn't  too 
rough  fer  ye." 

"Oh,  no,"  said  the  boy  politely,  and  the  girl 
said: 

"I'd  just  love  to." 

18 


THE  HEART  OF  THE  HILLS 

The  Blue-grass  man's  attention  was  caught  by 
the  names. 

"Jason,"  he  repeated;  "why,  Jason  was  a 
mighty  hunter,  and  Mavis — that  means  'the  song- 
thrush/  How  in  the  world  did  they  get  those 
names?" 

"Well,  my  granddaddy  was  a  powerful  b'ar- 
hunter  in  his  day,"  said  the  old  man,  "an'  I  heerd 
as  how  a  school-teacher  nicknamed  him  Jason, 
an'  that  name  come  down  to  me  an'  him.  I've 
heerd  o'  Mavis  as  long  as  I  can  rickellect.  Hit 
was  my  grandmammy's  name." 

Colonel  Pendleton  looked  at  the  sturdy  moun 
tain  lad,  his  compact  figure,  square  shoulders, 
well-set  head  with  its  shock  of  hair  and  bold, 
steady  eyes,  and  at  the  slim,  wild  little  creature 
shrinking  against  the  mantel-piece,  and  then  he 
turned  to  his  own  son  Gray  and  his  little  cousin 
Marjorie.  Four  better  types  of  the  Blue-grass 
and  of  the  mountains  it  would  be  hard  to  find. 
For  a  moment  he  saw  them  in  his  mind's  eye 
transposed  in  dress  and  environment,  and  he  was 
surprised  at  the  little  change  that  eye  could  see, 
and  when  he  thought  of  the  four  living  together 
in  these  wilds,  or  at  home  in  the  Blue-grass,  his 
wonder  at  what  the  result  might  be  almost  star 
tled  him.  The  mountain  lad  had  shown  no  sur 
prise  at  the  talk  about  him  and  his  cousin,  but 
when  the  stranger  man  caught  his  eye,  little 
Jason's  lips  opened. 

19 


THE  HEART  OF  THE  HILLS 

"I  knowed  all  about  that,"  he  said  abruptly. 

"About  what?" 

"Why,  that  mighty  hunter — and  Mavis." 

"Why,  who  told  you?" 

"The  jologist." 

"The  what?"     Old  Jason  laughed. 

"He  means  ge-ol-o-gist,"  said  the  old  man,  who 
had  no  little  trouble  with  the  right  word  himself. 
"A  feller  come  in  here  three  year  ago  with  a 
hammer  an'  went  to  peckin'  aroun'  in  the  rocks 
here,  an'  that  boy  was  with  him  all  the  time. 
Thar  don't  seem  to  be  much  the  feller  didn't  tell 
Jason  an'  nothin'  that  Jason  don't  seem  to  re 
member.  He's  al'ays  a-puzzlin'  me  by  comin' 
out  with  somethin'  or  other  that  rock-pecker  toF 
him  an' — "  he  stopped,  for  the  boy  was  shaking 
his  head  from  side  to  side. 

"Don't  you  say  nothin'  agin  him,  now,"  he 
said,  and  old  Jason  laughed. 

"He's  a  powerful  hand  to  take  up  fer  his  friends, 
Jason  is." 

"He  was  a  friend  o'  all  us  mountain  folks," 
said  the  boy  stoutly,  and  then  he  looked  Colonel 
Pendleton  in  the  face — fearlessly,  but  with  no 
impertinence. 

"He  said  as  how  you  folks  from  the  big  settle- 
mints  was  a-comin'  down  here  to  buy  up  our  wild 
lands  fer  nothin'  because  we  all  was  a  lot  o'  fools 
an'  didn't  know  how  much  they  was  worth,  an' 
that  ever'body'd  have  to  move  out  o'  here  an' 

20 


THE  HEART  OF  THE  HILLS 

you'd  get  rich  diggin'  our  coal  an'  cuttin'  our  tim 
ber  an'  raisin'  hell  ginerally." 

He  did  not  notice  Marjorie's  flush,  but  went 
on  fierily:  "He  said  that  our  trees  caught  the  rain 
an'  our  gullies  gethered  it  together  an'  troughed 
it  down  the  mountains  an'  made  the  river  which 
would  water  all  yo'  lands.  That  you  was  a  lot 
o'  damn  fools  cuttin'  down  yo'  trees  an'  a-plant- 
in'  terbaccer  an'  a-spittin'  out  yo'  birthright  in 
terbaccer-juice,  an'  that  by  an'  by  you'd  come  up 
here  an'  cut  down  our  trees  so  that  there  wouldn't 
be  nothin'  left  to  ketch  the  rain  when  it  fell,  so 
that  yo'  rivers  would  git  to  be  cricks  an'  yo'  cricks 
branches  an'  yo'  land  would  die  o'  thirst  an'  the 
same  thing  'ud  happen  here.  Co'se  we'd  all  be 
gone  when  all  this  tuk  place,  but  he  said  as  how 
I'd  live  to  see  the  day  when  you  furriners  would 
be  damaged  by  wash-outs  down  thar  in  the  set 
tlements  an'  would  be  a-pilin'  up  stacks  an'  stacks 
o'  gold  out  o'  the  lands  you  robbed  me  an'  my 
kinfolks  out  of." 

"Shet  up,"  said  Arch  Hawn  sharply,  and  the 
boy  wheeled  on  him. 

"Yes,  an'  you  air  a-helpin'  the  furriners  to  rob 
yo'  own  kin;  you  air  a-doin'  hit  yo'self." 

"Jason!" 

The  old  man  spoke  sternly  and  the  boy  stopped, 
flushed  and  angry,  and  a  moment  later  slipped 
from  the  room. 

"Well!"  said  the  colonel,  and  he  laughed  good- 
21 


THE  HEART  OF  THE  HILLS 

humoredly  to  relieve  the  strain  that  his  host 
might  feel  on  his  account;  but  he  was  amazed 
just  the  same — the  bud  of  a  socialist  blooming  in 
those  wilds!  Arch  Hawn's  shrewd  face  looked  a 
little  concerned,  for  he  saw  that  the  old  man's 
rebuke  had  been  for  the  discourtesy  to  strangers, 
and  from  the  sudden  frown  that  ridged  the  old 
man's  brow,  that  the  boy's  words  had  gone  deep 
enough  to  stir  distrust,  and  this  was  a  poor  start 
in  the  fulfilment  of  the  purpose  he  had  in  view. 
He  would  have  liked  to  give  the  boy  a  cuff  on  the 
ear.  As  for  Mavis,  she  was  almost  frightened  by 
the  outburst  of  her  playmate,  and  Marjorie  was 
horrified  by  his  profanity;  but  the  dawning  of 
something  in  Gray's  brain  worried  him,  and  pres 
ently  he,  too,  rose  and  went  to  the  back  porch. 
The  rain  had  stopped,  the  wet  earth  was  fragrant 
with  freshened  odors,  wood-thrushes  were  singing, 
and  the  upper  air  was  drenched  with  liquid  gold 
that  was  darkening  fast.  The  boy  Jason  was 
seated  on  the  yard  fence  with  his  chin  in  his  hands, 
his  back  to  the  house,  and  his  face  toward  home. 
He  heard  the  stranger's  step,  turned  his  head,  and 
mistaking  a  puzzled  sympathy  for  a  challenge, 
dropped  to  the  ground  and  came  toward  him, 
gathering  fury  as  he  came.  Like  lightning  the 
Blue-grass  lad's  face  changed,  whitening  a  little  as 
he  sprang  forward  to  meet  him,  but  Jason,  mo 
tioning  with  his  thumb,  swerved  behind  the  chim 
ney,  where  the  stranger  swiftly  threw  off  his  coat, 

22 


THE  HEART  OF  THE  HILLS 

the  mountain  boy  spat  on  his  hands,  and  like  two 
diminutive  demons  they  went  at  each  other 
fiercely  and  silently.  A  few  minutes  later  the 
two  little  girls  rounding  the  chimney  corner  saw 
them — Gray  on  top  and  Jason  writhing  and  bit 
ing  under  him  like  a  tortured  snake.  A  moment 
more  Mavis's  strong  little  hand  had  the  stranger 
boy  by  his  thick  hair  and  Mavis,  feeling  her  own 
arm  clutched  by  the  stranger-girl,  let  go  and  turned 
on  her  like  a  fury.  There  was  a  piercing  scream 
from  Marjorie,  hurried  footsteps  answered  on  the 
porch,  and  old  Jason  and  the  colonel  looked  with 
bewildered  eyes  on  the  little  Blue-grass  girl  amazed, 
indignant,  white  with  horror;  Mavis  shrinking 
away  from  her  as  though  she  were  the  one  who 
had  been  threatened  with  a  blow;  the  stranger 
lad  with  a  bitten  thumb  clinched  in  the  hollow 
of  one  hand,  his  face  already  reddening  with  con 
trition  and  shame;  and  savage  little  Jason  bit 
ing  a  bloody  lip  and  with  the  lust  of  battle  still 
shaking  him  from  head  to  foot. 

"Jason,"  said  the  old  man  sternly,  "whut's  the 
matter  out  hyeh?" 

Marjorie  pointed  one  finger  at  Mavis,  started 
to  speak,  and  stopped.  Jason's  eyes  fell. 

"Nothin',"  he  said  sullenly,  and  Colonel  Pen- 
dleton  looked  to  his  son  with  astonished  inquiry, 
and  the  lad's  fine  face  turned  bewildered  and 
foolish. 

"I  don't  know,  sir,"  he  said  at  last. 
23 


THE  HEART  OF  THE  HILLS 

"Don't  know?"  echoed  the  colonel.  "Well " 

The  old  man  broke  in: 

"Jason,  if  you  have  lost  yo'  manners  an'  don't 
know  how  to  behave  when  thar's  strangers  around, 
I  reckon  you'd  better  go  on  home." 

The  boy  did  not  lift  his  eyes. 

"I  was  a-goin'  home  anyhow,"  he  said,  still 
sullen,  and  he  turned. 

"Oh,  no!"  said  the  colonel  quickly;  "this  won't 
do.  Come  now — you  two  boys  shake  hands." 

At  once  the  stranger  lad  walked  forward  to  his 
enemy,  and  confused  Jason  gave  him  a  limp  hand. 
The  old  man  laughed.  "Come  on  in,  Jason — 
you  an'  Mavis — an*  stay  to  supper." 

The  boy  shook  his  head. 

"I  got  to  be  gittin'  back  home,"  he  said,  and 
without  a  word  more  he  turned  again.  Mar- 
jorie  looked  toward  the  little  girl,  but  she,  too, 
was  starting. 

"I  better  be  gittin'  back  too,"  she  said  shyly, 
and  off  she  ran.  Old  Jason  laughed  again. 

"Jes'  like  two  young  roosters  out  thar  in  my 
barnyard,"  and  he  turned  with  the  colonel  toward 
the  house.  But  Marjorie  and  her  cousin  stood 
in  the  porch  and  watched  the  two  little  moun 
taineers  until,  without  once  looking  back,  they 
passed  over  the  sunlit  hill. 


24 


IV 

they  trudged,  the  boy  plodding  sturdily 
ahead,  the  little  girl  slipping  mountain- 
fashion  behind.  Not  once  did  she  come  abreast 
with  him,  and  not  one  word  did  either  say,  but 
the  mind  and  heart  of  both  were  busy.  All  the 
way  the  frown  overcasting  the  boy's  face  stayed 
like  a  shadow,  for  he  had  left  trouble  at  home,  he 
had  met  trouble,  and  to  trouble  he  was  going  back. 
The  old  was  definite  enough  and  he  knew  how  to 
handle  it,  but  the  new  bothered  him  sorely.  That 
stranger  boy  was  a  fighter,  and  Jason's  honest 
soul  told  him  that  if  interference  had  not  come 
he  would  have  been  whipped,  and  his  pride  was 
still  smarting  with  every  step.  The  new  boy  had 
not  tried  to  bite,  or  gouge,  or  to  hit  him  when  he 
was  on  top — facts  that  puzzled  the  mountain  boy; 
he  hadn't  whimpered  and  he  hadn't  blabbed — 
not  even  the  insult  Jason  had  hurled  with  eye  and 
tongue  at  his  girl-clad  legs.  He  had  said  that  he 
didn't  know  what  they  were  fighting  about,  and 
just  why  they  were  Jason  himself  couldn't  quite 
make  out  now;  but  he  knew  that  even  now,  in 
spite  of  the  hand-shaking  truce,  he  would  at  the 
snap  of  a  finger  go  at  the  stranger  again.  And 
little  Mavis  knew  now  that  it  was  not  fear  that 

25 


THE  HEART  OF  THE  HILLS 

made  the  stranger  girl  scream — and  she,  too,  was 
puzzled.  She  even  felt  that  the  scorn  in  Mar- 
jorie's  face  was  not  personal,  but  she  had  shrunk 
from  it  as  from  the  sudden  lash  of  a  whip.  The 
stranger  girl,  too,  had  not  blabbed  but  had  even 
seemed  to  smile  her  forgiveness  when  Mavis 
turned,  with  no  good-by,  to  follow  Jason.  Hand 
in  hand  the  two  little  mountaineers  had  crossed 
the  threshold  of  a  new  world  that  day.  Together 
they  were  going  back  into  their  own,  but  the  clutch 
of  the  new  was  tight  on  both,  and  while  neither 
could  have  explained,  there  was  the  same  thought 
in  each  mind,  the  same  nameless  dissatisfaction 
in  each  heart,  and  both  were  in  the  throes  of  the 
same  new  birth. 

The  sun  was  sinking  when  they  started  up  the 
spur,  and  unconsciously  Jason  hurried  his  steps 
and  the  girl  followed  hard.  The  twin  spirals  of 
smoke  were  visible  now,  and  where  the  path 
forked  the  boy  stopped  and  turned,  jerking  his 
thumb  toward  her  cabin  and  his. 

"Ef  anything  happens" — he  paused,  and  the 
girl  nodded  her  understanding — "y°u  an'  me  air 
goin'  to  stay  hyeh  in  the  mountains  an*  git  mar 
ried/' 

"Yes,  Jasie,"  she  said. 

His  tone  was  matter-of-fact  and  so  was  hers, 
nor  did  she  show  any  surprise  at  the  suddenness 
of  what  he  said,  and  Jason,  not  looking  at  her, 
failed  to  see  a  faint  flush  come  to  her  cheek.  -He 

26 


THE  HEART  OF  THE  HILLS 

turned  to  go,  but  she  stood  still,  looking  down 
into  the  gloomy,  darkening  ravine  below  her.  A 
bear's  tracks  had  been  found  in  that  ravine  only 
the  day  before.  "Air  ye  afeerd?"  he  asked  tol 
erantly,  and  she  nodded  mutely. 

"I'll  take  ye  down,"  he  said  with  sudden  gen 
tleness. 

The  tall  mountaineer  was  standing  on  the  porch 
of  the  cabin,  and  with  assurance  and  dignity  Jason 
strode  ahead  with  a  protecting  air  to  the  gate. 

"Whar  you  two  been?"  he  called  sharply. 

"I  went  fishin',"  said  the  boy  unperturbed, 
"an'  tuk  Mavis  with  me." 

"You  air  gittin'  a  leetle  too  peart,  boy.  I  don't 
want  that  gal  a-runnin'  around  in  the  woods  all 
day." 

Jason  met  his  angry  eyes  with  a  new  spirit. 

"I  reckon  you  hain't  been  hyeh  long." 

The  shot  went  home  and  the  mountaineer  glared 
helpless  for  an  answer. 

"Come  on  in  hyeh  an'  git  supper,"  he  called 
harshly  to  the  girl,  and  as  the  boy  went  back  up 
the  spur,  he  could  hear  the  scolding  going  on 
below,  with  no  answer  from  Mavis,  and  he  made 
up  his  mind  to  put  an  end  to  that  some  day  him 
self.  He  knew  what  was  waiting  for  him  on  the 
other  side  of  the  spur,  and  when  he  reached  the 
top,  he  sat  down  for  a  moment  on  a  long-fallen, 
moss-grown  log.  Above  him  beetled  the  top  of  his 
world.  His  great  blue  misty  hills  washed  their 

27 


THE  HEART  OF  THE  HILLS 

turbulent  waves  to  the  yellow  shore  of  the  drop 
ping  sun.  Those  waves  of  forests  primeval  were 
his,  and  the  green  spray  of  them  was  tossed  into 
cloudland  to  catch  the  blessed  rain.  In  every 
little  fold  of  them  drops  were  trickling  down  now 
to  water  the  earth  and  give  back  the  sea  its  own. 
The  dreamy-eyed  man  of  science  had  told  him 
that.  And  it  was  unchanged,  all  unchanged  since 
wild  beasts  were  the  only  tenants,  since  wild  In 
dians  slipped  through  the  wilderness  aisles,  since 
the  half-wild  white  man,  hot  on  the  chase,  planted 
his  feet  in  the  footsteps  of  both  and  inexorably 
pushed  them  on.  The  boy's  first  Kentucky  an 
cestor  had  been  one  of  those  who  had  stopped  in 
the  hills.  His  rifle  had  fed  him  and  his  family; 
his  axe  had  put  a  roof  over  their  heads,  and  the 
loom  and  spinning-wheel  had  clothed  their  bodies. 
Day  by  day  they  had  fought  back  the  wilderness, 
had  husbanded  the  soil,  and  as  far  as  his  eagle 
eye  could  reach,  that  first  Hawn  had  claimed 
mountain,  river,  and  tree  for  his  own,  and  there 
was  none  to  dispute  the  claim  for  the  passing  of 
half  a  century.  Now  those  who  had  passed  on 
were  coming  back  again — the  first  trespasser  long, 
long  ago  with  a  yellow  document  that  he  called 
a  "blanket-patent"  and  which  was  all  but  the 
bringer's  funeral  shroud,  for  the  old  hunter  started 
at  once  for  his  gun  and  the  stranger  with  his  pat 
ent  took  to  flight.  Years  later  a  band  of  young 
men  with  chain  and  compass  had  appeared  in  the 

28 


THE  HEART  OF  THE  HILLS 

hills  and  disappeared  as  suddenly,  and  later  still 
another  band,  running  a  line  for  a  railroad  up  the 
river,  found  old  Jason  at  the  foot  of  a  certain  oak 
with  his  rifle  in  the  hollow  of  his  arm  and  mark 
ing  a  dead-line  which  none  dared  to  cross. 

Later  still,  when  he  understood,  the  old  man 
let  them  pass,  but  so  far  nobody  had  surveyed 
his  land,  and  now,  instead  of  trying  to  take,  they 
were  trying  to  purchase.  From  all  points  of  the 
compass  the  "furriners"  were  coming  now,  the 
rock-pecker's  prophecy  was  falling  true,  and  at 
that  moment  the  boy's  hot  words  were  having  an 
effect  on  every  soul  who  had  heard  them.  Old 
Jason's  suspicions  were  alive  again;  he  was  short 
of  speech  when  his  nephew,  Arch  Hawn,  brought 
up  the  sale  of  his  lands,  and  Arch  warned  the 
colonel  to  drop  the  subject  for  the  night.  The 
colonel's  mind  had  gone  back  to  a  beautiful  wood 
land  at  home  that  he  thought  of  clearing  off  for  to 
bacco — he  would  put  that  desecration  off  a  while. 
The  stranger  boy,  too,  was  wondering  vaguely 
at  the  fierce  arraignment  he  had  heard;  the 
stranger  girl  was  curiously  haunted  by  mem 
ories  of  the  queer  little  mountaineer,  while  Mavis 
now  had  a  new  awe  of  her  cousin  that  was  but 
another  rod  with  which  he  could  go  on  ruling  her. 

Jason's  mother  was  standing  in  the  door  when 
he  walked  through  the  yard  gate.  She  went  back 
into  the  cabin  when  she  saw  him  coming,  and  met 
him  at  the  door  with  a  switch  in  her  hand.  Very 

29 


THE  HEART  OF  THE  HILLS  , 

coolly  the  lad  caught  it  from  her,  broke  it  in  two, 
threw  it  away,  and  picking  up  a  piggin  went  out 
without  a  word  to  milk,  leaving  her  aghast  and 
outdone.  When  he  came  back,  he  asked  like  a 
man  if  supper  was  ready,  and  as  to  a  man  she 
answered.  For  an  hour  he  pottered  around  the 
barn,  and  for  a  long  while  he  sat  on  the  porch 
under  the  stars.  And,  as  always  at  that  hour,  the 
same  scene  obsessed  his  memory,  when  the  last 
glance  of  his  father's  eye  and  the  last  words  of 
his  father's  tongue  went  not  to  his  wife,  but  to 
the  white-faced  little  son  across  the  foot  of  the 
death-bed : 

"You'll  git  him  fer  me — some  day." 

'Til  git  him,  pap." 

Those  were  the  words  that  passed,  and  in  them 
was  neither  the  asking  nor  the  giving  of  a  prom 
ise,  but  a  simple  statement  and  a  simple  accept 
ance  of  a  simple  trust,  and  the  father  passed  with 
a  grim  smile  of  content.  Like  every  Hawn  the 
boy  believed  that  a  Honeycutt  was  the  assassin, 
and  in  the  solemn  little  fellow  one  purpose  hith 
erto  had  been  supreme — to  discover  the  man  and 
avenge  the  deed;  and  though,  young  as  he  was, 
he  was  yet  too  cunning  to  let  the  fact  be  known, 
there  was  no  male  of  the  name  old  enough  to  pull 
the  trigger,  not  even  his  mother's  brother,  Babe, 
who  did  not  fall  under  the  ban  of  the  boy's  death 
less  hate  and  suspicion.  And  always  his  mother, 
though  herself  a  Honeycutt,  had  steadily  fed  his 

30 


THE  HEART  OF  THE  HILL! 

purpose,  but  for  a  long  while  now  she  had  kept 
disloyally  still,  and  the  boy  had  bitterly  learned 
the  reason. 

It  was  bedtime  now,  and  little  Jason  rose  and 
went  within.  As  he  climbed  the  steps  leading 
to  his  loft,  he  spoke  at  last,  nodding  his  head 
toward  the  cabin  over  the  spur: 

"I  reckon  I  know  whut  you  two  air  up  to,  and, 
furdermore,  you  air  aimin'  to  sell  this  land.  I 
can't  keep  you  from  doin'  it,  I  reckon,  but  I  do 
ax  you  not  to  sell  without  lettin'  me  know.  I 
know  somep'n'  'bout  it  that  nobody  else  knows. 
An'  if  you  don't  tell  me — "  he  shook  his  head 
slowly,  and  the  mother  looked  at  her  boy  as 
though  she  were  dazed  by  some  spell. 

"I'll  tell  ye,  Jasie,"  she  said. 


(l 


the  river  road  loped  Arch  Hawn  the 
next    morning,    his    square    chin    low   with 
thought,  his  shrewd  eyes  almost  closed,  and  \ 
straight  lips  closed  hard  on  the  cane  stem  of  a 
unlighted  pipe.     Of  all  the  Hawns  he  had  bee" 
born  the  poorest  in  goods  and  chattels  and  th 
richest  in  shrewd  resource,  restless  energy,  anu. 
keen  foresight.     He  had  gone  to  the  settlements 
when  he  was  a  lad,  he  had  always  been  cominc* 
and  going  ever  since,  and  the  word  was  that  1" 
had  been  to  far-away  cities  in  the  outer  world  trr 
were  as  unfamiliar  to  his  fellows  and  kindred  ;•. 
the  Holy  Land.     He  had  worked  as  teamster  ard 
had  bought  and  sold  anything  to  anybody  rigbr 
and  left.     Resolutely  he  had  kept  himself  from 
all  part  in  the  feud — his  kinship  with  the  Hawn^ 
protecting  him  on  one  side  and  the  many  tract 
with  old  Aaron  Honeycutt  in  cattle  and  lands 
saving  him  from  trouble  on  the  other.     He  cr 
ried  no  tales  from  one  faction  to  the  other,  con 
demned  neither  one  nor  the  other,  and  made  th 
same  comment  to  both — that  it  was  foolish  to 
fight  when  there  was  so  much  else  so  much  more 
profitable  to  do.     Once  an  armed  band  of  mounted 
Honeycutts  had  met  him  in  the  road  and  de- 

32 


THE  HEART  OF  THE  HILLS 

manded  news  of  a  similar  band  of  Hawns  up  a 
creek.  "Did  you  ever  hear  o'  my  tellin*  the 
Hawns  anything  about  you  Honeycutts?"  he 
asked  quietly,  and  old  Aaron  had  to  shake  his 
head. 

"Well,  if  I  tol'  you  anything  about  them  to 
day,  don't  you  know  I'd  be  tellin'  them  some 
thing  about  you  to-morrow?" 

Old  Aaron  scratched  his  head. 

"By  Gawd,  boys — that's  so.     Let  him  pass!" 

Thus  it  was  that  only  Arch  Hawn  could  have 
brought  about  an  agreement  that  was  the  ninth 
wonder  of  the  mountain  world,  and  was  no  less 
than  a  temporary  truce  in  the  feud  between  old 
Aaron  Honeycutt  and  old  Jason  Hawn  until  the 
land  deal  in  which  both  leaders  shared  a  heavy 
interest  could  come  to  a  consummation.  Arch 
had  interested  Colonel  Pendleton  in  his  "wild 
lands"  at  a  horse  sale  in  the  Blue-grass.  The 
mountaineer's  shrewd  knowledge  of  horses  had 
caught  the  attention  of  the  colonel,  his  drawling 
speech,  odd  phrasing,  and  quaint  humor  had 
amused  the  Blue-grass  man,  and  his  exposition  of 
the  wealth  of  the  hills  and  the  vast  holdings  that 
he  had  in  the  hollow  of  his  hand,  through  op 
tions  far  and  wide,  had  done  the  rest — for  the 
matter  was  timely  to  the  colonel's  needs  and  to 
his  accidental  hour  of  opportunity.  Only  a  short 
while  before  old  Morton  Sanders,  an  Eastern  cap 
italist  of  Kentucky  birth,  had  been  making  inquiry 

33 


THE  HEART  OF  THE  HILLS 

of  him  that  the  mountaineer's  talk  answered  pre 
cisely,  and  soon  the  colonel  found  himself  an 
intermediary  between  buried  coal  and  open  mill 
ions,  and  such  a  quick  unlooked-for  chance  of 
exchange  made  Arch  Hawn's  brain  reel.  Only 
a  few  days  before  the  colonel  started  for  the  moun 
tains,  Babe  Honeycutt  had  broken  the  truce  by 
shooting  Shade  Hawn,  but  as  Shade  was  going  to 
get  well,  Arch's  oily  tongue  had  licked  the  wound 
to  the  pride  of  every  Honeycutt  except  Shade, 
and  he  calculated  that  the  latter  would  be  so  long 
in  bed  that  his  interference  would  never  count. 
But  things  were  going  wrong.  Arch  had  had  a 
hard  time  with  old  Jason  the  night  before.  Again 
he  had  to  go  over  the  same  weary  argument  that 
he  had  so  often  travelled  before:  the  mountain 
people  could  do  nothing  with  the  mineral  wealth 
of  their  hills;  the  coal  was  of  no  value  to  them 
where  it  was;  they  could  not  dig  it,  they  had  no 
market  for  it;  and  they  could  never  get  it  into 
the  markets  of  the  outside  world.  It  was  the 
boy's  talk  that  had  halted  the  old  man,  and  to 
Arch's  amazement  the  colonel's  sense  of  fairness 
seemed  to  have  been  touched  and  his  enthusiasm 
seemed  to  have  waned  a  little.  That  morning, 
too,  Arch  had  heard  that  Shade  Hawn  was  getting 
well  a  little  too  fast,  and  he  was  on  his  way  to  see 
about  it.  Shade  was  getting  well  fast,  and  with 
troubled  eyes  Arch  saw  him  sitting  up  in  a  chair 
and  cleaning  his  Winchester. 

34 


THE  HEART  OF  THE  HILLS 

" What's  yo'  hurry?" 

"I  ain't  never  agreed  to  no  truce,"  said  Shade 
truculently. 

"  Don't  you  think  you  might  save  a  little  time 
— waitin'  fer  Babe  to  git  tame?  He's  hidin'  out. 
You  can't  find  him  now." 

"I  can  look  fer  him." 

"Shade!" — wily  Arch  purposely  spoke  loud 
enough  for  Shade's  wife  to  hear,  and  he  saw  her 
thin,  worn,  shrewish  face  turn  eagerly — "I'll  give 
ye  just  fifty  dollars  to  stay  here  in  the  house  an' 
git  well  fer  two  more  weeks.  You  know  why, 
an'  you  know  hit's  wuth  it  to  me.  What  you 
say?" 

Shade  rubbed  his  stubbled  chin  ruminatively 
and  his  wife  Mandy  broke  in  sharply: 

"Take  it,  you  fool!" 

Apparently  Shade  paid  no  heed  to  the  advice 
nor  the  epithet,  which  was  not  meant  to  be  offen 
sive,  but  he  knew  that  Mandy  wanted  a  cow  of 
just  that  price  and  a  cow  she  would  have;  while 
he  needed  cartridges  and  other  little  "fixin's," 
and  he  owed  for  moonshine  up  a  certain  creek, 
and  wanted  more  just  then  and  badly.  But  men 
tal  calculation  was  laborious  and  he  made  a 
plunge: 

"Not  a  cent  less'n  seventy-five,  an*  I  ain't  goin' 
to  argue  with  ye." 

Arch  scowled. 

"Split  the  difference!"  he  commanded. 
35 


THE  HEART  OF  THE  HILLS 

"All  right." 

A  few  minutes  later  Arch  was  loping  back  up 
the  river  road.  Within  an  hour  he  had  won  old 
Jason  to  a  non-committal  silence  and  straight 
way  volunteered  to  show  the  colonel  the  out- 
croppings  of  his  coal.  And  old  Jason  mounted 
his  sorrel  mare  and  rode  with  the  party  up  the 
creek. 

It  was  Sunday  and  a  holiday  for  little  Jason 
from  toil  in  the  rocky  corn-field.  He  was  stir 
ring  busily  before  the  break  of  dawn.  While  the 
light  was  still  gray,  he  had  milked,  cut  wood  for 
his  mother,  and  eaten  his  breakfast  of  greasy 
bacon  and  corn-bread.  On  that  day  it  had  been 
his  habit  for  months  to  disappear  early,  come 
back  for  his  dinner,  slip  quietly  away  again  and 
return  worn  out  and  tired  at  milking-time.  In 
variably  for  a  long  time  his  mother  had  asked : 

"Whut  you  been  a-doin',  Jason?"  And  in 
variably  his  answer  was : 

"Nothin'  much." 

But,  by  and  by,  as  the  long  dark  mountaineer, 
Steve  Hawn,  got  in  the  daily  habit  of  swinging 
over  the  ridge,  she  was  glad  to  be  free  from  the 
boy's  sullen  watchfulness,  and  particularly  that 
morning  she  was  glad  to  see  him  start  as  usual 
up  the  path  his  own  feet  had  worn  through  the 
steep  field  of  corn,  and  disappear  in  the  edge  of 
the  woods.  She  would  have  a  long  day  for  court 
ship  and  for  talk  of  plans  which  she  was  keeping 

36 


THE  HEART  OF  THE  HILLS 

secret  from  little  Jason.  She  was  a  Honeycutt 
and  she  had  married  one  Hawn,  and  there  had 
been  much  trouble.  Now  she  was  going  to  marry 
another  of  the  tribe,  there  would  be  more  trouble, 
and  Steve  Hawn  over  the  ridge  meant  to  evade 
it  by  straightway  putting  forth  from  those  hills. 
Hurriedly  she  washed  the  dishes,  tidied  up  her 
poor  shack  of  a  home,  and  within  an  hour  she 
was  seated  in  the  porch,  in  her  best  dress,  with  her 
knitting  in  her  lap  and,  even  that  early,  lifting 
expectant  and  shining  eyes  now  and  then  to  the 
tree-crowned  crest  of  the  ridge. 

Up  little  Jason  went  through  breaking  mist  and 
flashing  dew.  A  wood-thrush  sang,  and  he  knew 
the  song  came  from  the  bird  of  which  little  Mavis 
was  the  human  counterpart.  Woodpeckers  were 
hammering  and,  when  a  crested  cock  of  the  woods 
took  billowy  flight  across  a  blue  ravine,  he  knew 
him  for  a  big  cousin  of  the  little  red-heads,  just 
as  Mavis  was  a  little  cousin  of  his.  Once  he  had 
known  birds  only  by  sight,  but  now  he  knew 
every  calling,  twittering,  winging  soul  of  them  by 
name.  Once  he  used  to  draw  bead  on  one  and 
I  all  heartlessly  and  indiscriminately  with  his  old 
rifle,  but  now  only  the  whistle  of  a  bob-white, 
the  darting  of  a  hawk,  or  the  whir  of  a  pheas 
ant's  wings  made  him  whirl  the  old  weapon  from 
his  shoulder.  He  knew  flower,  plant,  bush,  and 
weed,  the  bark  and  leaf  of  every  tree,  and  even 
in  winter  he  could  pick  them  out  in  the  gray  etch- 

37 


THE  HEART  OF  THE  HILLS 

ing  of  a  mountain-side — dog-wood,  red-bud,  "sar- 
vice"  berry,  hickory,  and  walnut,  the  oaks — white, 
black,  and  chestnut — the  majestic  poplar,  prized 
by  the  outer  world,  and  the  black-gum  that  defied 
the  lightning.  All  this  the  dreamy  stranger  had 
taught  him,  and  much  more.  And  nobody,  na 
tive  born  to  those  hills,  except  his  uncle  Arch, 
knew  as  much  about  their  hidden  treasures  as 
little  Jason.  He  had  trailed  after  the  man  of  sci 
ence  along  the  benches  of  the  mountains  where 
coal  beds  lie.  With  him  he  had  sought  the  roots 
of  upturned  trees  and  the  beds  of  little  creeks 
and  the  gray  faces  of  "rock-houses"  for  signs  of 
the  black  diamonds.  He  had  learned  to  watch 
the  beds  of  little  creeks  for  the  shining  tell-tale 
black  bits,  and  even  the  tiny  mouths  of  crawfish 
holes,  on  the  lips  of  which  they  sometimes  lay. 
And  the  biggest  treasure  in  the  hills  little  Jason  had 
found  himself;  for  only  on  the  last  day  before  the 
rock-pecker  had  gone  away,  the  two  had  found 
signs  of  another  vein,  and  the  geologist  had  given 
his  own  pick  to  the  boy  and  told  him  to  dig,  while 
he  was  gone,  for  himself.  And  Jason  had  dug. 
He  was  slipping  now  up  the  tiny  branch,  and 
where  the  stream  trickled  down  the  face  of  a 
water-worn  perpendicular  rock  the  boy  stopped, 
leaned  his  rifle  against  a  tree,  and  stepped  aside 
into  the  bushes.  A  moment  later  he  reappeared 
with  a  small  pick  in  his  hand,  climbed  up  over  a 
mound  of  loose  rocks  and  loose  earth,  ten  feet 

38 


THE  HEART  OF  THE  HILLS 

around  the  rock,  and  entered  the  narrow  mouth 
of  a  deep,  freshly  dug  ditch.  Ten  feet  farther 
on  he  was  halted  by  a  tall  black  column  solidly 
wedged  in  the  narrow  passage,  at  the  base  of 
which  was  a  bench  of  yellow  dirt  extending  not 
more  than  two  feet  from  the  foot  of  the  column 
and  above  the  floor  of  the  ditch.  There  had  been 
mighty  operations  going  on  in  that  secret  pas 
sage;  the  toil  for  one  boy  and  one  tool  had  been 
prodigious  and  his  work  was  not  yet  quite  done. 
Lifting  the  pick  above  his  head,  the  boy  sank  it 
into  that  yellow  pedestal  with  savage  energy, 
raking  the  loose  earth  behind  him  with  hands  and 
feet.  The  sunlight  caught  the  top  of  the  black 
column  above  his  head  and  dropped  shining  inch 
by  inch,  but  on  he  worked  tirelessly.  The  yellow 
bench  disappeared  and  the  heap  of  dirt  behind 
him  was  piled  high  as  his  head,  but  the  black 
column  bored  on  downward  as  though  bound  for 
the  very  bowels  of  the  earth,  and  only  when  the 
bench  vanished  to  the  level  of  the  ditch's  floor 
did  the  lad  send  his  pick  deep  into  a  new  layer 
and  lean  back  to  rest  even  for  a  moment.  A  few 
deep  breaths,  the  brushing  of  one  forearm  and 
then  the  other  across  his  forehead  and  cheeks, 
and  again  he  grasped  the  tool.  This  time  it  came 
out  hard,  bringing  out  with  its  point  particles  of 
grayish-black  earth,  and  the  boy  gave  a  low,  shrill 
yell.  It  was  a  bed  of  clay  that  he  had  struck — 
the  bed  on  which,  as  the  geologist  had  told  him, 
the  massive  layers  of  coal  had  slept  so  long.  In 

39 


THE  HEART  OF  THE  HILLS 

a  few  minutes  he  had  skimmed  a  yellow  inch  or 
two  more  to  the  dingy  floor  of  the  clay  bed,  and 
had  driven  his  pick  under  the  very  edge  of  the 
black  bulk  towering  above  him. 

His  work  was  done,  and  no  buccaneer  ever 
gloated  more  over  hidden  treasure  than  Jason 
over  the  prize  discovered  by  him  and  known  of 
nobody  else  in  the  world.  He  raised  his  head 
and  looked  up  the  shimmering  black  face  of  his 
find.  He  took  up  his  pick  again  and  notched 
foot-holes  in  each  side  of  the  yellow  ditch.  He 
marked  his  own  height  on  the  face  of  the  column, 
and,  climbing  up  along  it,  measured  his  full  length 
again,  and  yet  with  outstretched  arm  he  could 
barely  touch  the  top  of  the  vein  with  the  tips  of 
his  fingers.  No  vein  half  that  thick  had  the  rock- 
pecker  with  all  his  searching  found,  and  the  lad 
gave  a  long,  low  whistle  of  happy  amazement. 
A  moment  later  he  dropped  his  pick,  climbed 
over  the  pile  of  new  dirt,  emerged  at  the  mouth  of 
the  passage,  and  sat  down  as  if  on  guard  in  the 
grateful  coolness  of  the  little  ravine.  Drawing 
one  long  breath,  he  looked  proudly  back  once 
more  and  began  shaking  his  head  wisely.  They 
couldn't  fool  him.  He  knew  what  that  mighty 
vein  of  coal  was  worth.  Other  people — fools — 
might  sell  their  land  for  a  dollar  or  two  an  acre, 
even  old  Jason,  his  grandfather,  but  not  the 
Jason  Hawn  who  had  dug  that  black  giant  out 
of  the  side  of  the  mountain. 

"Go  away,   boy,"   the  rock-pecker  had  said. 
40 


THE  HEART  OF  THE  HILLS 

"Get  an  education.  Leave  this  farm  alone — it 
won't  run  away.  By  the  time  you  are  twenty- 
one,  an  acre  of  it  will  be  worth  as  much  as  all  of 


it  is  now." 


No,  they  couldn't  fool  him.  He  would  keep 
his  find  a  secret  from  every  soul  on  earth — even 
from  his  grandfather  and  Mavis,  both  of  whom 
he  had  already  been  tempted  to  tell.  He  rose  to 
his  feet  with  the  resolution  and  crouched  suddenly, 
listening  hard.  Something  was  coming  swiftly  to 
ward  him  through  the  undergrowth  on  the  other 
side  of  the  creek,  and  he  reached  stealthily  for 
his  rifle,  sank  behind  the  bowlder  with  his  thumb 
on  the  hammer  just  as  the  bushes  parted  on  the 
opposite  cliff,  and  Mavis  stood  above  him,  peer 
ing  for  him  and  calling  his  name  in  an  excited 
whisper.  He  rose  glowering  and  angry. 

"Whut  you  doin'  up  here?"  he  asked  roughly, 
and  the  girl  shrank,  and  her  message  stopped  at 
her  lips. 

"They're  comin'  up  here,"  she  faltered. 

The  boy's  eyes  accused  her  mercilessly  and  he 
seemed  not  to  hear  her. 

"You've  been  spyin'!" 

The  dignity  of  his  manhood  was  outraged,  and 
humbly  and  helplessly  she  nodded  in  utter  abase 
ment,  faltering  again: 

"They're  comin'  up  here!" 

"Who's  comin'  up  here?" 

"Them  strangers  an'  grandpap  an'  Uncle  Arch 
— an'  another  rock-pecker." 

41 


THE  HEART  OF  THE  HILLS 

"Didyoutell'em?" 

The  girl  crossed  her  heart  and  body  swiftly. 

"I  hain't  told  a  soul,"  she  gasped.  "I  come  up 
to  tell  you." 

"  When  they  comin'?" 

The  sound  of  voices  below  answered  for  her. 
The  boy  wheeled,  alert  as  a  wild-cat,  the  girl  slid 
noiselessly  down  the  cliff  and  crept  noiselessly 
after  him  down  the  bed  of  the  creek,  until  they 
could  both  peer  through  the  bushes  down  on 
the  next  bend  of  the  stream  below.  There  they 
were — all  of  them,  and  down  there  they  had  halted. 

"Ain't  no  use  goin'  up  any  furder,"  said  the 
voice  of  Arch  Hawn;  "I've  looked  all  up  this 
crick  an'  thar  ain't  nary  a  blessed  sign  o'  coal." 

"All  right,"  said  the  colonel,  who  was  puffing 
with  the  climb.  "That  suits  me — I've  had 
enough." 

At  Jason's  side,  Mavis  echoed  his  own  swift 
breath  of  relief,  but  as  the  party  turned,  the 
rock-pecker  stooped  and  rose  with  a  black  lump 
in  his  hand. 

" Hello  1"  he  said,  "where  did  this  come  from?" 

The  boy's  heart  began  to  throb,  for  once  he  had 
started  to  carry  that  very  lump  to  his  grandfather, 
had  changed  his  mind,  and  thoughtlessly  dropped 
it  there.  The  geologist  was  looking  at  it  closely 
and  then  began  to  weigh  it  with  his  hand. 

"This  is  pretty  good-looking  coal,"  he  said, 
and  he  laughed.  "I  guess  we'd  better  go  up  a 
little  farther — this  didn't  come  out  all  by  itself." 

42 


THE  HEART  OF  THE  HILLS 

The  boy  dug  Mavis  sharply  in  the  shoulder. 

"Git  back  into  the  bushes — quick!"  he  whis 
pered. 

The  girl  shrank  away  and  the  boy  dropped 
down  into  the  bed  of  the  creek  and  slipped  down 
to  where  the  stream  poured  between  two  bowl 
ders  over  which  ascent  was  slippery  and  diffi 
cult.  And  when  the  party  turned  up  the  bend 
of  the  creek,  Arch  Hawn  saw  the  boy,  tense  and 
erect,  on  the  wet  black  summit  of  one  bowlder, 
with  his  old  rifle  in  the  hollow  of  his  arm. 

"Why,  hello,  Jason!"  he  cried,  with  a  start  of 
surprise;  "found  anything  to  shoot?" 

"Not  yit!"  said  Jason  shortly. 

The  geologist  stepped  around  Arch  and  started 
to  climb  toward  the  foot  of  the  bowlder. 

"You  stop  thar!" 

The  ring  of  the  boy's  fiery  command  stopped 
the  man  as  though  a  rattlesnake  had  given  the 
order  at  his  very  feet,  and  he  looked  up  bewil 
dered;  but  the  boy  had  not  moved. 

"Whut  you  mean,  boy?"  shouted  Arch.  "We're 
lookin'  for  a  vein  o'  coal." 

"Well,  you  hain't  a-goin'  to  find  hit  up  this 
way." 

"Whut  you  want  to  keep  us  from  goin'  up  here 
fer?"  asked  the  uncle  with  sarcastic  suspicion. 
"Got  a  still  up  here?" 

"That's  my  business,"  said  little  Jason. 

"Well,"  shouted  Arch  angrily  again,  "this  ain't 
43 


THE  HEART  OF  THE  HILLS 

yo'  land  an*  I've  got  a  option  on  it  an'  hit's  my 
business  to  go  up  here,  an*  I'm  goin'!" 

As  he  pushed  ahead  of  the  geologist  the  boy 
flashed  his  old  rifle  to  his  shoulder. 

"I'll  let  ye  come  just  two  steps  more,"  he  said 
quietly,  and  old  Jason  Hawn  began  to  grin  and 
stepped  aside  as  though  to  get  out  of  range. 

"Hoi'  on  thar,  Arch,"  he  said;  "he'll  shoot, 
shore!"  And  Arch  held  on,  bursting  with  rage 
and  glaring  up  at  the  boy. 

"I've  a  notion  to  git  me  a  switch  an'  whoop 
the  life  out  o'  you."  The  boy  laughed  derisively. 

"My  whoopin'  days  air  over."  The  amazed 
and  amused  geologist  put  his  hand  on  Arch's 
shoulder. 

"Never  mind,"  he  said,  and  with  a  significant 
wink  he  pulled  a  barometer  out  of  his  pocket  and 
carefully  noted  the  altitude. 

"We'll  manage  it  later." 

The  party  turned,  old  Jason  still  smiling  grimly, 
the  colonel  chuckling,  the  geologist  busy  with 
speculation,  and  Arch  sore  and  angry,  but  won 
dering  what  on  earth  it  was  that  the  boy  had 
found  up  that  ravine.  Presently  with  the  geolo 
gist  he  dropped  behind  the  other  two  and  the  lat- 
ter's  frowning  brow  cleared  into  a  smile  at  his 
lips.  He  stopped,  looking  still  at  the  black  lump 
and  weighing  it  once  more  in  his  hand. 

"I  think  I  know  this  coal,"  he  said  in  a  low 
voice,  "and  if  I'm  right  you've  got  the  best  and 

44 


THE  HEART  OF  THE  HILLS 

thickest  vein  of  coking  coal  in  these  mountains. 
It's  the  Culloden  seam.  Nobody  ever  has  found 
it  on  this  side  of  the  mountain,  and  it  is  supposed 
to  have  petered  out  on  the  way  through.  That 
boy  has  found  the  Culloden  seam.  The  altitude 
is  right,  the  coal  looks  and  weighs  like  it,  and  we 
can  find  it  somewhere  else  under  that  bench  along 
the  mountain.  So  you  better  let  the  boy  alone." 

Little  Jason  stood  motionless  looking  after  them. 
Little  Mavis  crept  from  her  hiding-place.  Her 
face  showed  no  pride  in  Jason's  triumph  and  few 
traces  of  excitement,  for  she  was  already  schooled 
to  the  quiet  acquiescence  of  mountain  women  in 
the  rough  deeds  of  the  men.  She  had  seen  Jason 
going  up  that  ravine,  she  could  simply  not  help 
going  herself  to  learn  why,  she  was  mystified  by 
what  he  had  done  up  there,  but  she  had  kept  his 
secret  faithfully.  Now  she  was  beginning  to 
understand  that  the  matter  was  serious,  and  for 
that  reason  the  boy's  charge  of  spying  lay  heavier 
on  her  mind.  So  she  came  slowly  and  shyly  and 
stood  behind  him,  her  eyes  dark  with  penitence. 

The  boy  heard  her,  but  he  did  not  turn  around. 

"You  better  go  home,  Mavie,"  he  said,  and  at 
his  very  tone  her  face  flashed  with  joy.  "They 
mought  come  back  agin.  I'm  goin'  to  stay  up 
here  till  dark.  They  can't  see  nothin'  then." 

There  was  not  a  word  of  rebuke  for  her;  it  was 
his  secret  and  hers  now,  and  pride  and  gratitude 
filled  her  heart  and  her  eyes. 

45 


THE  HEART  OF  THE  HILLS 

"All  right,  Jasie,"  she  said  obediently,  and  down 
the  bowlder  she  stepped  lightly,  and  slipping 
down  the  bed  of  the  creek,  disappeared.  And  not 
once  did  she  look  around. 

The  shadows  lengthened,  the  ravines  filled  with 
misty  blue,  the  steep  westward  spur  threw  its 
bulky  shadow  on  the  sunlit  flank  of  the  opposite 
hill,  and  the  lonely  spirit  of  night  came  with  the 
gloom  that  gathered  fast  about  him  in  the  defile 
where  he  lay.  A  slow  wind  was  blowing  up  from 
the  river  toward  him,  and  on  it  came  faintly  the 
long  mellow  blast  of  a  horn.  It  was  no  hunter's 
call,  and  he  sprang  to  his  feet.  Again  the  wind 
ing  came  and  his  tense  muscles  relaxed — nor  was 
it  a  warning  that  "revenues"  were  coming — and  he 
sank  back  to  his  lonely  useless  vigil  again.  The 
sun  dipped,  the  sky  darkened,  the  black  wings  of 
the  night  rushed  upward  and  downward  and  from 
all  around  the  horizon,  but  only  when  they  were 
locked  above  him  did  he  slip  like  a  creature  of 
the  gloom  down  the  bed  of  the  stream. 


VI 

THE  cabin  was  unlighted  when  Jason  came 
in  sight  of  it  and  apprehension  straight 
way  seized  him;  so  that  he  broke  into  a  run,  but 
stopped  at  the  gate  and  crept  slowly  to  the  porch 
and  almost  on  tiptoe  opened  the  door.  The  fire 
was  low,  but  the  look  of  things  was  unchanged, 
and  on  the  kitchen  table  he  saw  his  cold  supper 
laid  for  him.  His  mother  had  maybe  gone  over 
the  ridge  for  some  reason  to  stay  all  night,  so  he 
gobbled  his  food  hastily  and,  still  uneasy,  put 
forth  for  Mavis's  cabin  over  the  hill.  That  cabin, 
too,  was  dark  and  deserted,  and  he  knew  now 
what  had  happened — that  blast  of  the  horn  was 
a  summons  to  a  dance  somewhere,  and  his  mother 
and  Steve  had  answered  and  taken  Mavis  with 
them;  so  the  boy  sat  down  on  the  porch,  alone 
with  the  night  and  the  big  still  dark  shapes  around 
him.  It  would  not  be  very  pleasant  for  him  to 
follow  them — people  would  tease  him  and  ask 
him  troublesome  questions.  But  where  was  the 
dance,  and  had  they  gone  to  it  after  all?  He 
rose  and  went  swiftly  down  the  creek.  At  the 
mouth  of  it  a  light  shone  through  the  darkness, 
and  from  it  a  quavering  hymn  trembled  on  the 
still  air.  A  moment  later  Jason  stood  on  the 

47 


THE  HEART  OF  THE  HILLS 

threshold  of  an  open  door  and  an  old  couple  at 
the  fireplace  lifted  welcoming  eyes. 

"  Uncle  Lige,  do  you  know  whar  my  mammy  is  ? "" 

The  old  man's  eyes  took  on  a  troubled  look,, 
but  the  old  woman  answered  readily: 

"Why,  I  seed  her  an'  Steve  Hawn  an'  Mavis 
a-goin'  down  the  crick  jest  afore  dark,  an'  yo* 
mammy  said  as  how  they  was  aimin'  to  go  to  yo* 
grandpap's." 

It  was  his  grandfather's  horn,  then,  Jason  had 
heard.  The  lad  turned  to  go,  and  the  old  circuit 
rider  rose  to  his  full  height. 

"Come  in,  boy.  Yo'  grandpap  had  better  be 
a-thinkin'  about  spreadin'  the  wings  of  his  immor 
tal  sperit,  stid  o'  shakin'  them  feet  o'  clay  o'  his'n 
an*  a-settin'  a  bad  example  to  the  young  anr 
errin'!" 

"Hush  up!"  said  the  old  woman.  "The  Bible 
don't  say  nothin'  agin  a  boy  lookin'  fer  his  mammy, 
no  matter  whar  she  is." 

She  spoke  sharply,  for  Steve  Hawn  had  called 
her  husband  out  to  the  gate,  where  the  two  had 
talked  in  whispers,  and  the  old  man  had  refused 
flatly  to  tell  her  what  the  talk  was  about.  But 
Jason  had  turned  without  a  word  and  was  gone. 
Out  in  the  darkness  of  the  road  he  stood  for  a 
moment  undecided  whether  or  not  he  should  go 
back  to  his  lonely  home,  and  some  vague  fore 
boding  started  him  swiftly  on  down  the  creek. 
On  top  of  a  little  hill  he  could  see  the  light  in  his 


THE  HEART  OF  THE  HILLS 

grandfather's  house,  and  that  far  away  he  could 
hear  the  rollicking  tune  of  "Sourwood  Mountain." 
The  sounds  of  dancing  feet  soon  came  to  his  ears, 
and  from  those  sounds  he  could  tell  the  figures 
of  the  dance  just  as  he  could  tell  the  gait  of  an 
unseen  horse  thumping  a  hard  dirt  road.  He 
leaned  over  the  yard  fence — looking,  listening,' 
thinking.  Through  the  window  he  could  see  the 
fiddler  with  his  fiddle  pressed  almost  against  his 
heart,  his  eyes  closed,  his  horny  fingers  thump 
ing  the  strings  like  trip-hammers,  and  his  melan 
choly  calls  ringing  high  above  the  din  of  shuf 
fling  feet.  His  grandfather  was  standing  before 
the  fireplace,  his  grizzled  hair  tousled  and  his  face 
red  with  something  more  than  the  spirits  of  the 
dance.  The  colonel  was  doing  the  "grand  right 
and  left,"  and  his  mother  was  the  colonel's  part 
ner — the  colonel  as  gallant  as  though  he  were 
leading  mazes  with  a  queen  and  his  mother  sim 
pering  and  blushing  like  a  girl.  In  one  corner 
sat  Steve  Hawn,  scowling  like  a  storm-cloud,  and 
on  one  bed  sat  Marjorie  and  the  boy  Gray  watch 
ing  the  couple  and  apparently  shrieking  with 
laughter;  and  Jason  wondered  what  they  could 
be  laughing  about.  Little  Mavis  was  not  in  sight. 
When  the  dance  closed  he  could  see  the  colonel 
go  over  to  the  little  strangers  and,  seizing  each  by 
the  hand,  try  to  pull  them  from  the  bed  into  the 
middle  of  the  floor.  Finally  they  came,  and  the 
boy,  looking  through  the  window,  and  Mavis, 

49 


THE  HEART  OF  THE  HILLS 

who  suddenly  appeared  in  the  door  leading  to  the 
porch,  saw  a  strange  sight.  Gray  took  Marjorie's 
right  hand  with  his  left  and  put  his  right  arm 
around  her  waist  and  then  to  the  stirring  strains 
of  "Soapsuds  Over  the  Fence"  they  whirled  about 
the  room  as  lightly  as  two  feathers  in  an  eddy  of 
air.  It  was  a  two-step  and  the  first  round  dance 
ever  seen  in  these  hills,  and  the  mountaineers 
took  it  silently,  grimly,  and  with  little  sign  of 
favor  or  disapproval,  except  from  old  Jason,  who, 
looking  around  for  Mavis,  caught  sight  of  little 
Jason's  wondering  face  over  her  shoulder,  for  the 
boy  had  left  the  blurred  window-pane  and  hurried 
around  to  the  back  door  for  a  better  view.  With 
a  whoop  the  old  man  reached  for  the  little  girl, 
and  gathered  in  the  boy  with  his  other  hand. 

"Hyeh!"  he  cried,  "you  two  just  git  out  thar 
an'  shake  a  foot!" 

Little  Mavis  hung  back,  but  the  boy  bounded 
into  the  middle  of  the  floor  and  started  into  a 
furious  jig,  his  legs  as  loose  from  the  hip  as  a 
jumping-jack  and  the  soles  and  heels  of  his  rough 
brogans  thumping  out  every  note  of  the  music 
with  astonishing  precision  and  rapidity.  He 
hardly  noticed  Mavis  at  first,  and  then  he  began 
to  dance  toward  her,  his  eyes  flashing  and  fixed 
on  hers  and  his  black  locks  tumbling  about  his 
forehead  as  though  in  an  electric  storm.  The 
master  was  calling  and  the  maid  answered — shyly 
at  first,  coquettishly  by  and  by,  and  then,  for- 

50 


THE  HEART  OF  THE  HILLS 

getting  self  and  onlookers,  with  a  fiery  abandon 
that  transformed  her.  Alternately  he  advanced 
and  she  retreated,  and  when,  with  a  scornful  toss 
of  that  night-black  head,  the  boy  jigged  away, 
she  would  relent  and  lure  him  back,  only  to  send 
him  on  his  way  again.  Sometimes  they  were 
back  to  back  and  the  colonel  s-aw  that  always 
then  the  girl  was  first  to  turn,  but  if  the  lad 
turned  first,  the  girl  whirled  as  though  she  were 
answering  the  dominant  spirit  of  his  eyes  even 
through  the  back  of  her  head,  and,  looking  over 
to  the  bed,  he  saw  his  own  little  kinswoman 
answering  that  same  masterful  spirit  in  a  way 
that  seemed  hardly  less  hypnotic.  Even  Gray's 
clear  eyes,  fixed  at  first  on  the  little  mountain 
girl,  had  turned  to  Jason,  but  they  were  undaunted 
and  smiling,  and  when  Jason,  seeing  Steve's  face 
at  the  window  and  his  mother  edging  out  through 
the  front  door,  seemed  to  hesitate  in  his  dance, 
and  Mavis,  thinking  he  was  about  to  stop,  turned 
panting  away  from  him,  Gray  sprang  from  the 
bed  like  a  challenging  young  buck  and  lit  facing 
the  mountain  boy  and  in  the  midst  of  a  double- 
shuffle  that  the  amazed  colonel  had  never  seen 
outdone  by  any  darkey  on  his  farm. 

"Jenny  with  a  rufF-duff  a-kickin'  up  the  dust," 
clicked  his  feet. 

"Juba  this  and  Juba  that! 
Juba  killed  a  yaller  cat! 
Juba!    Juba!" 

51 


THE  HEART  OF  THE  HILLS 

"Whoop!"  yelled  old  Jason,  bending  his  huge 
body  and  patting  his  leg  and  knee  to  the  beat  of 
one  big  cowhide  boot  and  urging  them  on  in  a 
frenzy  of  delight : 

"Come  on,  Jason!  Git  atter  him,  stranger! 
Whoop  her  up  thar  with  that  fiddle — Heh — ee — 
dum  dee — eede-eedle — dedee-dee!" 

Then  there  was  dancing.  The  fiddler  woke  like 
a  battery  newly  charged,  every  face  lighted  with 
freshened  interest,  and  only  the  colonel  and  Mar- 
jorie  showed  surprise  and  mystification.  The 
double-shuffle  was  hardly  included  in  the  curricu 
lum  of  the  colonel's  training  school  for  a  gentle 
man,  and  where,  when,  and  how  the  boy  had 
learned  such  Ethiopian  skill,  neither  he  nor  Mar- 
jorie  knew.  But  he  had  it  and  they  enjoyed  it 
to  the  full.  Gray's  face  wore  a  merry  smile,  and 
Jason,  though  he  was  breathing  hard  and  his 
black  hair  was  plastered  to  his  wet  forehead, 
faced  his  new  competitor  with  rallying  feet  but 
a  sullen  face.  "The  Forked  Deer,"  "Big  Sewell 
Mountain,"  and  "Cattle  Licking  Salt"  for  Jason, 
and  the  back-step,  double-shufHe,  and  "Jim 
Crow"  for  Gray;  both  improvising  their  own 
steps  when  the  fiddler  raised  his  voice  in  "Comin* 
up,  Sandy,"  "Chicken  in  the  Dough-Tray,"  and 
"Sparrows  on  the  Ash-Bank";  and  thus  they 
went  through  all  the  steps  known  to  the  negro  or 
the  mountaineer,  until  the  colonel  saw  that  game 
little  Jason,  though  winded,  would  go  on  till  he 

52 


THE  HEART  OF  THE  HILLS 

dropped,  and  gave  Gray  a  sign  that  the  boy's  gen 
erous  soul  caught  like  a  flash;  for,  as  though  worn 
out  himself,  he  threw  up  his  hands  with  a  laugh 
and  left  the  floor  to  Jason.  Just  then  there  was 
the  crack  of  a  Winchester  from  the  darkness  out 
side.  Simultaneously,  as  far  as  the  ear  could 
detect,  there  was  a  sharp  rap  on  a  window-pane, 
as  a  bullet  sped  cleanly  through,  and  in  front  of 
the  fire  old  Jason's  mighty  head  sagged  suddenly 
and  he  crumbled  into  a  heap  on  the  floor.  Arch 
Hawn  had  carried  his  business  deal  through.  The 
truce  was  over  and  the  feud  was  on  again. 


53 


VII 

T7-NOWING  but  little  of  his  brother  in  the 
"•  hills,  the  man  from  the  lowland  Blue-grass 
was  puzzled  and  amazed  that  all  feeling  he  could 
observe  was  directed  solely  at  the  deed  itself  and 
not  at  the  way  it  was  done.  No  indignation  was 
expressed  at  what  was  to  him  the  contemptible 
cowardice  involved — indeed  little  was  said  at  all, 
but  the  colonel  could  feel  the  air  tense  and  low 
ering  with  a  silent  deadly  spirit  of  revenge,  and 
he  would  have  been  more  puzzled  had  he  known 
the  indifference  on  the  part  of  the  Hawns  as 
to  whether  the  act  of  revenge  should  take  pre 
cisely  the  same  form  of  ambush.  For  had  the 
mountain  code  of  ethics  been  explained  to  him 
— that  what  was  fair  for  one  was  fair  for  the 
other;  that  the  brave  man  could  not  fight  the 
coward  who  shot  from  the  brush  and  must,  there 
fore,  adopt  the  coward's  methods;  that  thus  the 
method  of  ambush  had  been  sanctioned  by  long 
custom — he  still  could  never  have  understood  how 
a  big,  burly,  kind-hearted  man  like  Jason  Hawn 
could  have  been  brought  even  to  tolerance  of  am 
bush  by  environment,  public  sentiment,  private 
policy,  custom,  or  any  other  influence  that  moulds 
the  character  of  men. 

54 


THE  HEART  OF  THE  HILLS 

Old  Jason  would  easily  get  well — the  colonel 
himself  was  surgeon  enough  to  know  that — and 
he  himself  dressed  and  bandaged  the  ragged 
wound  that  the  big  bullet  had  made  through  one 
of  the  old  man's  mighty  shoulders.  At  his  elbow 
all  the  time,  helping,  stood  little  Jason,  and  not 
once  did  the  boy  speak,  nor  did  the  line  of  his 
clenched  lips  alter,  nor  did  the  deadly  look 
in  his  smouldering  eyes  change.  One  by  one  the 
guests  left,  the  colonel  sent  Marjorie  and  Gray  to 
bed,  grandmother  Hawn  sent  Mavis,  and  when 
all  was  done  and  the  old  man  was  breathing 
heavily  on  a  bed  in  the  corner  and  grandmother 
Hawn  was  seated  by  the  fire  with  a  handkerchief 
to  her  lips,  the  colonel  heard  the  back  door  open 
and  little  Jason,  too,  was  gone — gone  on  business 
of  his  own.  He  had  seen  Steve  Hawn's  face  at 
the  window,  his  mother  had  slipped  out  on  the 
porch  while  he  was  dancing,  and  neither  had  ap 
peared  again.  So  little  Jason  went  swiftly  through 
the  dark,  over  the  ridge  and  up  the  big  creek  to 
the  old  circuit  rider's  house,  where  the  stream 
forked.  All  the  way  he  had  seen  the  tracks  of 
a  horse  which  he  knew  to  be  Steve's,  for  the  right 
forefoot,  he  knew,  had  cast  a  shoe  only  the  day 
before. 

At  the  forks  the  tracks  turned  up  the  branch 
that  led  to  Steve's  cabin  and  not  up  toward  his 
mother's  house.  If  Steve  had  his  mother  behind 
him,  he  had  taken  her  to  his  own  home;  that,  in 

55 


THE  HEART  OF  THE  HILLS 

Mavis's  absence,  was  not  right,  and,  burning  with 
sudden  rage,  the  boy  hurried  up  the  branch.  The 
cabin  was  dark  and  at  the  gate  he  gave  a  shrill, 
imperative  "Hello!" 

In  a  few  minutes  the  door  opened  and  the 
tousled  head  of  his  cousin  was  thrust  forth. 

"Is  my  mammy  hyeh?"  he  called  hotly. 

"Yep,"  drawled  Steve. 

"Well,  tell  her  I'm  hyeh  to  take  her  home!" 
There  was  no  sound  from  within. 

"Well,  she  ain't  goin'  home,"  Steve  drawled. 

The  boy  went  sick  and  speechless  with  fury, 
but  before  he  could  get  his  breath  Steve  drawled 
again: 

"She's  goin'  to  live  here  now — we  got  married 
to-night."  The  boy  dropped  helplessly  against  the 
gate  at  these  astounding  words  and  his  silence 
stirred  Steve  to  kindness. 

"Now,  don't  take  it  so  hard,  Jason.  Come 
on  in,  boy,  an'  stay  all  night." 

Still  the  lad  was  silent  and  another  face  ap 
peared  at  the  door. 

"Come  on  in,  Jasie." 

It  was  his  mother's  voice  and  the  tone  was 
pleading,  but  the  boy,  with  no  answer,  turned, 
and  they  heard  his  stumbling  steps  as  he  made 
his  way  along  the  fence  and  started  over  the  spur. 
Behind  him  his  mother  began  to  sob  and  with 
rough  kindness  Steve  soothed  her  and  closed  the 
door. 

56 


THE  HEART  OF  THE  HILLS 

Slowly  little  Jason  climbed  the  spur  and  dropped 
on  the  old  log  on  which  he  had  so  often  sat — 
fighting  out  the  trouble  which  he  had  so  long 
feared  must  come.  The  moon  and  the  stars  in 
her  wake  were  sinking  and  the  night  was  very 
still.  His  reason  told  him  his  mother  was  her 
own  mistress,  and  had  the  right  to  marry  when 
she  pleased  and  whom  she  pleased,  but  she  was 
a  Honeycutt,  again  she  had  married  a  Hawn,  and 
the  feud  was  starting  again.  Steve  Hawn  would 
be  under  suspicion  as  his  own  father  had  been, 
Steve  would  probably  have  to  live  on  the  Honey 
cutt  side  of  the  ridge,  and  Jason's  own  earlier 
days  of  shame  he  must  go  through  again.  That 
was  his  first  thought,  but  his  second  was  a  quick 
oath  to  himself  that  he  would  not  go  through 
them  again.  He  was  big  enough  to  handle  a 
Winchester  now,  and  he  would  leave  his  mother 
and  he  would  fight  openly  with  the  Hawns.  And 
then  as  he  went  slowly  down  the  spur  he  began 
to  wonder  with  fresh  suspicion  what  his  mother 
and  Steve  might  now  do,  what  influence  Steve 
might  have  over  her,  and  if  he  might  not  now 
encourage  her  to  sell  her  land.  And,  if  that 
happened,  what  would  become  of  him?  The  old 
hound  in  the  porch  heard  him  coming  and  began 
to  bay  at  him  fiercely,  but  when  he  opened  the 
gate  the  dog  bounded  to  him  whining  with  joy 
and  trying  to  lick  his  hands.  He  dropped  on  the 
porch  and  the  loneliness  of  it  all  clutched  his 

57 


THE  HEART  OF  THE  HILLS 

heart  so  that  he  had  to  gulp  back  a  sob  in  his 
throat  and  blink  his  eyes  to  keep  back  the  tears. 
But  it  was  not  until  he  went  inside  finally  and 
threw  himself  with  his  clothes  on  across  his  moth 
er's  empty  bed  that  he  lost  all  control  and  sobbed 
himself  to  sleep.  When  he  awoke  it  was  not 
only  broad  daylight,  but  the  sun  was  an  hour 
high  and  streaming  through  the  mud-chinked 
crevices  of  the  cabin.  In  his  whole  life  he  had 
never  slept  so  long  after  daybreak  and  he  sprang 
up  in  bed  with  bewildered  eyes,  trying  to  make 
out  where  he  was  and  why  he  was  there.  The 
realization  struck  him  with  fresh  pain,  and  when 
he  slowly  climbed  out  of  the  bed  the  old  hound 
was  whining  at  the  door.  When  he  opened  it 
the  fresh  wind  striking  his  warm  body  aroused  him 
sharply.  He  wondered  why  his  mother  had  not 
already  been  over  for  her  things.  The  chickens 
were  clustered  expectantly  at  the  corner  of  the 
house,  the  calf  was  bawling  at  the  corner  of  the 
fence,  and  the  old  cow  was  waiting  patiently  at 
the  gate.  He  turned  quickly  to  the  kitchen  and 
to  a  breakfast  on  the  scraps  of  his  last  night's 
supper.  He  did  not  know  how  to  make  coffee, 
and  for  the  first  time  in  his  life  he  went  without 
it.  Within  an  hour  the  cow  was  milked  and  fed, 
bread  crumbs  were  scattered  to  the  chickens,  and 
alone  in  the  lonely  cabin  he  faced  the  new  con 
ditions  of  his  life.  He  started  toward  the  gate, 
not  knowing  where  he  should  go.  He  drifted 

58 


THE  HEART  OF  THE  HILLS 

aimlessly  down  the  creek  and  he  began  to  wonder 
about  Mavis,  whether  she  had  got  home  and  now 
knew  what  had  happened  and  what  she  thought 
about  it  all,  and  about  his  grandfather  and  who 
it  was  that  had  shot  him.  There  were  many 
things  that  he  wanted  to  know,  and  his  steps 
quickened  with  a  definite  purpose.  At  the  mouth 
of  the  creek  he  hailed  the  old  circuit  rider's  house, 
and  the  old  man  and  his  wife  both  appeared  in 
the  doorway. 

"I  reckon  you  couldn't  help  doin'  it?" 

"No,"  said  the  old  man.  "Thar  wasn't  no 
reason  fer  me  to  deny  'em." 

He  looked  confused  and  the  old  woman  gulped, 
for  both  were  wondering  how  much  the  lad  knew. 

" How's  grandpap?" 

"Right  porely  I  heerd,"  said  the  old  woman. 
"The  doctor's  thar,  an'  he  said  that  if  the  bullet 
had  'a'  gone  a  leetle  furder  down  hit  would  'a' 
killed  him." 

"Whar's  Mavis?" 

Again  the  two  old  people  looked  confused,  for 
it  was  plain  that  Jason  did  not  know  all  that  had 
happened. 

"I  hain't  seed  her,  but  somebody  said  she  went 
by  hyeh  on  her  way  home  about  an  hour  ago.  I 
was  thinkin'  about  goin'  up  thar  right  now." 

The  boy's  eyes  were  shifting  now  from  one  to 
the  other  and  he  broke  in  abruptly: 

"Whut's  the  matter?" 

The  old  man's  lips  tightened. 
59 


THE  HEART  OF  THE  HILLS 

"Jason,  she's  up  thar  alone.  Yo'  mammy  an* 
Steve  have  run  away." 

The  lad  looked  at  the  old  man  with  unblinking 
eyes. 

"Don't  ye  understand,  boy?"  repeated  the  old 
man  kindly.  "They've  run  away!" 

Jason  turned  his  head  quickly  and  started  for 
the  gate. 

"Now,  don't,  Jason,"  called  the  old  woman 
in  a  broken  voice.  "Don't  take  on  that  way. 
I  want  ye  both  to  come  an'  live  with  us,"  she 
pleaded.  "Come  on  back  now." 

The  little  fellow  neither  made  answer  nor  looked 
back,  and  the  old  people  watched  him  turn  up 
the  creek,  trudging  toward  Mavis's  home. 

The  boy's  tears  once  more  started  when  he 
caught  sight  of  Steve  Hawn's  cabin,  but  he  forced 
them  back.  A  helpless  little  figure  was  sitting 
in  the  open  doorway  with  head  buried  in  her 
arms.  She  did  not  hear  him  coming  even  when 
he  was  quite  near,  for  the  lad  stepped  softly  and 
gently  put  one  hand  on  her  shoulder.  She  looked 
up  with  a  frightened  start,  and  at  sight  of  his  face 
she  quit  her  sobbing  and  with  one  hand  over  her 
quivering  mouth  turned  her  head  away. 

"Come  on,  Mavie,"  he  said  quietly. 

Again  she  looked  up,  wonderingly  this  time, 
and  seeing  some  steady  purpose  in  his  eyes  rose 
without  a  question. 

With  no  word  he  turned  and  she  followed  him 
60 


THE  HEART  OF  THE  HILLS 

back  down  the  creek.  And  the  old  couple,  sit 
ting  in  the  porch,  saw  them  coming,  the  boy  strid 
ing  resolutely  ahead,  the  little  girl  behind,  and 
the  faces  of  both  deadly  serious — the  one  with 
purpose  and  the  other  with  blind  trust.  They 
did  not  call  to  the  boy,  for  they  saw  him  swerve 
across  the  road  toward  the  gate.  He  did  not  lift 
his  head  until  he  reached  the  gate,  and  he  did 
not  wait  for  Mavis.  He  had  no  need,  for  she 
had  hurried  to  his  side  when  he  halted  at  the 
steps  of  the  porch. 

"Uncle  Lige,"  he  said,  "me  an'  Mavis  hyeh 
want  to  git  married." 

Not  the  faintest  surprise  showed  in  Mavis's 
face,  little  as  she  knew  what  his  purpose  was,  for 
what  the  master  did  was  right;  but  the  old  wom 
an  and  the  old  man  were  stunned  into  silence  and 
neither  could  smile. 

"Have  you  got  yo'  license?"  the  old  man  asked 
gravely. 

"Whut's  a  license?" 

"You  got  to  git  a  license  from  the  county  clerk 
afore  you  can  git  married,  an'  hit  costs  two  dol 
lars." 

The  boy  flinched,  but  only  for  a  moment. 

"I  kin  borrer  the  money,"  he  said  stoutly. 

"But  you  can't  git  a  license — you  ain't  a  man." 

"I  ain't!"  cried  the  boy  hotly;  "I  got  to  be!" 

"Come  in  hyeh,  Jason,"  said  the  old  man,  for 
it  was  time  to  leave  off  evasion,  and  he  led  the 

61 


THE  HEART  OF  THE  HILLS 

lad  into  the  house  while  Mavis,  with  the  old 
woman's  arm  around  her,  waited  in  the  porch. 
Jason  came  out  baffled  and  pale. 

"Hit  ain't  no  use,  Mavis,"  he  said;  "the  law's 
agin  us  an'  we  got  to  wait.  They've  run  away 
an'  they've  both  sold  out  an*  yo'  daddy  left  word 
that  he  was  goin'  to  send  fer  ye  whenever  he  got 
wharever  he  was  goin'." 

Jason  waited  and  he  did  not  have  to  wait  long. 

"I  hain't  goin'  to  leave  ye,"  she  flashed. 


62 


VIII 

CT.  HILDA  sat  on  the  vine-covered  porch  of 
^  her  little  log  cabin,  high  on  the  hill-side, 
with  a  look  of  peace  in  her  big  dreaming  eyes. 
From  the  frame  house  a  few  rods  below  her,  moun 
tain  children — boys  and  girls — were  darting  in  and 
out,  busy  as  bees,  and,  unlike  the  dumb,  pathetic 
little  people  out  in  the  hills,  alert,  keen-eyed, 
cheerful,  and  happy.  Under  the  log  foot-bridge 
the  shining  creek  ran  down  past  the  mountain 
village  below,  where  the  cupola  of  the  court 
house  rose  above  the  hot  dirt  streets,  the  ram 
shackle  hotel,  and  the  dingy  stores  and  frame 
dwellings  of  the  town.  Across  the  bridge  her  eyes 
rested  on  another  neat,  well-built  log  cabin  with 
a  grass  plot  around  it,  and,  running  alongside  and 
covered  with  honeysuckle — a  pergola!  That  was 
her  hospital  down  there — empty,  thank  God. 
With  a  little  turn  of  her  strong  white  chin,  her 
eyes  rested  on  the  charred  foundation  of  her 
school-house,  to  which  some  mean  hand  had  ap 
plied  the  torch  a  month  ago,  and  were  lifted 
up  to  the  mountain-side,  where  mountain  men 
were  chopping  down  trees  and  mountain  oxen 
yanking  them  down  the  steep  slopes  to  the  bank 


THE  HEART  OF  THE  HILLS 

of  the  creek,  and  then  the  peace  of  them  went 
deeper  still,  for  they  could  look  back  on  her 
work  and  find  it  good.  Nun-like  in  renunci 
ation,  she  had  given  up  her  beloved  Blue-grass 
land,  she  had  left  home  and  kindred,  and  she  had 
settled,  two  days'  journey  from  a  railroad,  in  the 
hills.  She  had  gone  back  to  the  physical  life  of 
the  pioneers,  she  had  encountered  the  customs 
and  sentiments  of  mediaeval  days,  and  no  abbess 
of  those  days,  carrying  light  into  dark  places, 
needed  more  courage  and  devotion  to  meet  the 
hardships,  sacrifice,  and  prejudice  that  she  had 
overcome.  She  brought  in  the  first  wagon-load 
of  window-panes  for  darkened  homes  before  she 
even  tapped  on  the  window  of  a  darkened  mind; 
but  when  she  did,  no  plants  ever  turned  more 
eagerly  toward  the  light  than  did  the  youthful 
souls  of  those  Kentucky  hills.  She  started  with 
five  pupils  in  a  log  cabin.  She  built  a  homely 
frame  house  with  five  rooms,  only  to  find  more 
candidates  clamoring  at  her  door.  She  taught 
the  girls  to  cook,  sew,  wash  and  iron,  clean  house, 
and  make  baskets,  and  the  boys  to  use  tools,  to 
farm,  make  garden,  and  take  care  of  animals; 
and  she  taught  them  all  to  keep  clean.  Out 
in  the  hills  she  found  good  old  names,  English 
and  Scotch-Irish.  She  found  men  who  "made 
their  mark"  boasting  of  grandfathers  who  were 
"scholards."  In  one  household  she  came  upon  a 
time-worn  set  of  the  "British  Poets"  up  to  the 

64 


THE  HEART  OF  THE  HILLS 

nineteenth  century,  and  such  was  the  sturdy  char 
acter  of  the  hillsmen  that  she  tossed  the  theory 
aside  that  they  were  the  descendants  of  the  riff 
raff  of  the  Old  World,  tossed  it  as  a  miserable 
slander  and  looked  upon  them  as  the  same  blood 
as  the  people  of  the  Blue-grass,  the  valleys,  and 
the  plains  beyond.  On  the  westward  march  they 
had  simply  dropped  behind,  and  their  isolation 
had  left  them  in  a  long  sleep  that  had  given  them 
a  long  rest,  but  had  done  them  no  real  harm. 
Always  in  their  eyes,  however,  she  was  a  woman, 
and  no  woman  was  "fitten"  to  teach  school. 
She  was  more — a  "fotched-on"  woman,  a  dis 
trusted  "furriner,"  and  she  was  carrying  on  a 
"slavery  school/'  Sometimes  she  despaired  of 
ever  winning  their  unreserved  confidence,  but 
out  of  the  very  depth  of  that  despair  to  which 
the  firebrand  of  some  miscreant  had  plunged  her, 
rose  her  star  of  hope,  for  then  the  Indian-like 
stoicism  of  her  neighbors  melted  and  she  learned 
the  place  in  their  hearts  that  was  really  hers. 
Other  neighborhoods  asked  for  her  to  come  to 
them,  but  her  own  would  not  let  her  go.  Straight 
way  there  was  nothing  to  eat,  smoke,  chew,  nor 
wear  that  grew  or  was  made  in  those  hills  that 
did  not  pour  toward  her.  Land  was  given  her, 
even  money  was  contributed  for  rebuilding,  and 
when  money  was  not  possible,  this  man  and  that 
gave  his  axe,  his  horse,  his  wagon,  and  his  ser 
vices  as  a  laborer  for  thirty  and  sixty  days.  So 


THE  HEART  OF  THE  HILLS 

that  those  axes  gleaming  in  the  sun  on  the  hill 
side,  those  straining  muscles,  and  those  sweating 
brows  meant  a  labor  of  love  going  on  for  her. 
No  wonder  the  peace  of  her  eyes  was  deep. 

And  yet  St.  Hilda,  as  one  forsaken  lover  in  the 
Blue-grass  had  christened  her,  opened  the  little 
roll-book  in  her  lap  and  sighed  deeply,  for  in  there 
on  her  waiting-list  were  the  names  of  a  hundred 
children  for  whom,  with  all  the  rebuilding,  she 
would  have  no  place.  Only  the  day  before,  a 
mountaineer  had  brought  in  nine  boys  and  girls, 
his  stepdaughter's  and  his  own,  and  she  had  sadly 
turned  them  away.  Still  they  were  coming  in 
name  and  in  person,  on  horseback,  in  wagon  and 
afoot,  and  among  them  was  Jason  Hawn,  who  was 
starting  toward  her  that  morning  from  far  away 
over  the  hills. 

Over  there  the  twin  spirals  of  smoke  no  longer 
rose  on  either  side  of  the  ridge  and  drifted  upward, 
for  both  cabins  were  closed.  Jason's  sale  was 
just  over — the  sale  of  one  cow,  two  pigs,  a  dozen 
chickens,  one  stove,  and  a  few  pots  and  pans — 
the  neighbors  were  gone,  and  Jason  sat  alone  on 
the  porch  with  more  money  in  his  pocket  than  he 
had  ever  seen  at  one  time  in  his  life.  His  bow 
and  arrow  were  in  one  hand,  his  father's  rifle  was 
over  his  shoulder,  and  his  old  nag  was  hitched 
to  the  fence.  The  time  had  come.  He  had  taken 
a  farewell  look  at  the  black  column  of  coal  he  had 
unearthed  for  others,  the  circuit  rider  would  tend 

66 


THE  HEART  OF  THE  HILLS 

his  little  field  of  corn  on  shares,  Mavis  would  live 
with  the  circuit  rider's  wife,  and  his  grandfather 
had  sternly  forbidden  the  boy  to  take  any  hand 
in  the  feud.  The  geologist  had  told  him  to  go 
away  and  get  an  education,  his  Uncle  Arch  had 
offered  to  pay  his  way  if  he  would  go  to  the  Blue- 
grass  to  school — an  offer  that  the  boy  curtly  de 
clined — and  now  he  was  starting  to  the  settle 
ment  school  of  which  he  had  heard  so  much,  in 
the  county-seat  of  an  adjoining  county.  For, 
even  though  run  by  women,  it  must  be  better  than 
nothing,  better  than  being  beholden  to  his  Uncle 
Arch,  better  than  a  place  where  people  and  coun 
try  were  strange.  So,  Jason  mounted  his  horse, 
rode  down  to  the  forks  of  the  creek  and  drew  up 
at  the  circuit  rider's  house,  where  Mavis  and  the 
old  woman  came  out  to  the  gate  to  say  good-by. 
The  boy  had  not  thought  much  about  the  little 
girl  and  the  loneliness  of  her  life  after  he  was 
gone,  for  he  was  the  man,  he  was  the  one  to  go 
forth  and  do;  and  it  was  for  Mavis  to  wait  for 
him  to  come  back.  But  when  he  handed  her 
the  bow  and  arrow  and  told  her  they  were  hers, 
the  sight  of  her  face  worried  him  deeply. 

"I'm  a-goin'  over  thar  an'  if  I  like  it  an*  thar's 
a  place  fer  you,  I'll  send  the  nag  back  fer  you,  too." 

He  spoke  with  manly  condescension  only  to 
comfort  her,  but  the  eager  gladness  that  leaped 
pitifully  from  her  eyes  so  melted  him  that  he 
added  impulsively: 


THE  HEART  OF  THE  HILLS 

"S'pose  you  git  up  behind  me  an*  go  with  me 
right  now." 

"Mavis  ain't  goin'  now,"  said  the  old  woman 
sharply.  "You  go  on  whar  you're  goin'  an'  come 
back  fer  her." 

"All  right,"  said  Jason,  greatly  relieved.  "Take 
keer  o'  yourselves." 

With  a  kick  he  started  the  old  nag  and  again 
pulled  in. 

"An5  if  you  leave  afore  I  git  back,  Mavis,  I'm 
a-goin'  to  come  atter  you,  no  matter  whar  you 
air — some  day." 

"Good-by,"  faltered  the  little  girl,  and  she 
watched  him  ride  down  the  creek  and  disappear, 
and  her  tears  came  only  when  she  felt  the  old 
woman's  arms  around  her. 

"Don't  you  mind,  honey." 

Over  ridge  and  mountain  and  up  and  down  the 
rocky  beds  of  streams  jogged  Jason's  old  nag  for 
two  days  until  she  carried  him  to  the  top  of  the 
wooded  ridge  whence  he  looked  down  on  the 
little  mountain  town  and  the  queer  buildings  of 
the  settlement  school.  Half  an  hour  later  St. 
Hilda  saw  him  cross  the  creek  below  the  bridge, 
ride  up  to  the  foot-path  gate,  hitch  his  old  mare, 
and  come  straight  to  her  where  she  sat — in  a 
sturdy  way  that  fixed  her  interest  instantly  and 
keenly. 

"I've  come  over  hyeh  to  stay  with  ye,"  he  said 
simply. 

68 


THE  HEART  OF  THE  HILLS 

St.  Hilda  hesitated  and  distress  kept  her  silent. 

"My  name's  Jason  Hawn.  I  come  from  t'other 
side  o'  the  mountain  an'  I  hain't  got  no  home." 

"I'm  sorry,  little  man,"  she  said  gently,  "but 
we  have  no  place  for  you." 

The  boy's  eyes  darted  to  one  side  and  the 
other. 

"Shucks!  I  can  sleep  out  thar  in  that  wood 
shed.  I  hain't  axin'  no  favors.  I  got  a  leetle 
money  an'  I  can  work  like  a  man." 

Now,  while  St.  Hilda's  face  was  strong,  her 
heart  was  divinely  weak  and  Jason  saw  it.  Un 
hesitatingly  he  climbed  the  steps,  handed  his 
rifle  to  her,  sat  down,  and  at  once  began  taking 
stock  of  everything  about  him — the  boy  swinging 
an  axe  at  the  wood-pile,  the  boy  feeding  the  hogs 
and  chickens;  another  starting  off  on  an  old 
horse  with  a  bag  of  corn  for  the  mill,  another 
ploughing  the  hill-side.  Others  were  digging 
ditches,  working  in  a  garden,  mending  a  fence, 
and  making  cinder  paths.  But  in  all  this  his 
interest  was  plainly  casual  until  his  eyes  caught 
sight  of  a  pile  of  lumber  at  the  door  of  the  work 
shop  below,  and  through  the  windows  the  occa 
sional  gleam  of  some  shining  tool.  Instantly  one 
eager  finger  shot  out. 

"I  want  to  go  down  thar." 

Good-humoredly  St.  Hilda  took  him,  and  when 
Jason  looked  upon  boys  of  his  own  age  chipping, 
hewing,  planing  lumber,  and  making  furniture,  so 

69 


THE  HEART  OF  THE  HILLS 

busy  that  they  scarcely  gave  him  a  glance,  St. 
Hilda  saw  his  eyes  light  and  his  fingers  twitch. 

"Gee!"  he  whispered  with  a  catch  of  his  breath, 
"  this  is  the  place  fer  me." 

But  when  they  went  back  and  Jason  put  his 
head  into  the  big  house,  St.  Hilda  saw  his  face 
darken,  for  in  there  boys  were  washing  dishes 
and  scrubbing  floors. 

"Does  all  the  boys  have  to  do  that?"  he  asked 
with  great  disgust. 

"Oh,  yes,"  she  said. 

Jason  turned  abruptly  away  from  the  door,  and 
when  he  passed  a  window  of  the  cottage  on  the 
way  back  to  her  cabin  and  saw  two  boys  within 
making  up  beds,  he  gave  a  grunt  of  scorn  and 
derision  and  he  did  not  follow  her  up  the  steps. 

"Gimme  back  my  gun,"  he  said. 

"Why,  what's  the  matter,  Jason?" 

"This  is  a  gals'  school — hit  hain't  no  place  fer 


me." 


It  was  no  use  for  her  to  tell  him  that  soldiers 
made  their  own  beds  and  washed  their  own  dishes, 
for  his  short  answer  was : 

"Mebbe  they  had  to,  'cause  thar  wasn't  no 
women  folks  around,  but  he  didn't,"  and  his  face 
was  so  hopelessly  set  and  stubborn  that  she  handed 
him  the  old  gun  without  another  word.  For  a 
moment  he  hesitated,  lifting  his  solemn  eyes  to 
hers.  "I  want  you  to  know  I'm  much  obleeged," 
he  said.  Then  he  turned  away,  and  St.  Hilda 

70 


THE  HEART  OF  THE  HILLS 

saw  him  mount  his  old  nag,  climb  the  ridge  oppo 
site  without  looking  back,  and  pass  over  the  sum 
mit. 

Old  Jason  Hawn  was  sitting  up  in  a  chair  when 
two  days  later  disgusted  little  Jason  rode  up  to 
his  gate. 

"They  wanted  me  to  do  a  gal's  work  over  thar," 
he  explained  shortly,  and  the  old  man  nodded 
grimly  with  sympathy  and  understanding. 

"I  was  lookin'  fer  ye  to  come  back." 

Old  Aaron  Honeycutt  had  been  winged  through 
the  shoulder  while  the  lad  was  away  and  the  feud 
score  had  been  exactly  evened  by  the  ambushing 
of  another  of  the  tribe.  On  this  argument  Arch 
Hawn  was  urging  a  resumption  of  the  truce,  but 
both  clans  were  armed  and  watchful  and  every 
body  was  looking  for  a  general  clash  on  the  next 
county-court  day.  The  boy  soon  rose  restlessly. 

"Wharyougoin'P" 

"Fin  a-goin'  to  look  atter  my  corn." 

At  the  forks  of  the  creek  the  old  circuit  rider 
hailed  Jason  gladly,  and  he,  too,  nodded  with 
approval  when  he  heard  the  reason  the  boy  had 
come  back. 

"I'll  make  ye  a  present  o'  the  work  I've  done 
in  yo'  corn — bein'  as  I  must  'a'  worked  might' 
nigh  an  hour  up  thar  yestiddy  an'  got  plumb 
tuckered  out.  I  come  might'  nigh  fallin'  out, 
hit  was  so  steep,  an'  if  I  had,  I  reckon  I'd  'a* 
broke  my  neck." 

71 


THE  HEART  OF  THE  HILLS 

The  old  woman  appeared  on  the  porch  and  she, 
too,  hailed  the  boy  with  a  bantering  tone  and  a 
quizzical  smile. 

"One  o'  them  fotched-on  women  whoop  ye  fer 
missin'  yo'  a-b-abs?"  she  asked.  Jason  scowled. 

"Whar's  Mavis?"  The  old  woman  laughed 
teasingly. 

"Why,  hain't  ye  heerd  the  news?  How  long 
d'ye  reckon  a  purty  gal  like  Mavis  was  a-goin' 
to  wait  fer  you?  'Member  that  good-lookin'  little 
furrin  feller  who  was  down  here  from  the  settle- 
mints?  Well,  he  come  back  an'  tuk  her  away." 

Jason  knew  the  old  woman  was  teasing  him, 
and  instead  of  being  angry,  as  she  expected,  he 
looked  so  worried  and  distressed  that  she  was 
sorry,  and  her  rasping  old  voice  became  gentle 
with  affection. 

"Mavis's  gone  to  the  settlemints,  honey.  HCF 
daddy  sent  fer  her  an'  I  made  her  go.  She's  whar 
she  belongs — up  thar  with  him  an'  yo'  mammy£ 
Go  put  yo'  hoss  in  the  stable  an'  come  an'  live* 
right  here  with  us." 

Jason  shook  his  head  and  without  answer  turned 
his  horse  down  the  creek  again.  A  little  way  down 
he  saw  three  Honeycutts  coming,  all  armed,  and 
he  knew  that  to  avoid  passing  his  grandfather's 
house  they  were  going  to  cross  the  ridge  and 
strike  the  head  of  their  own  creek.  One  of  them 
was  a  boy — "little  Aaron" — less  than  two  years 
older  than  himself,  and  little  Aaron  not  only  had 

72 


THE  HEART  OF  THE  HILLS 

a  pistol  buckled  around  him,  but  carried  a  Win 
chester  across  his  saddle-bow.  The  two  men 
grinned  and  nodded  good-naturedly  to  him,  but 
the  boy  Aaron  pulled  his  horse  across  the  road 
and  stopped  Jason,  who  had  stood  many  a  taunt 
from  him. 

"Which  side  air  you  on  now?"  asked  Aaron 
contemptuously. 

"You  git  out  o'  my  road!" 

"Hit's  my  road  now,"  said  Aaron,  tapping  his 
Winchester,  "an'  I've  got  a  great  notion  o'  mak- 
in'  you  git  ofFen  that  ole  bag  o'  bones  an*  dance 
fer  me."  One  of  the  Honeycutts  turned  in  his 
saddle. 

"Come  on,"  he  shouted  angrily,  "an'  let  that 
boy  alone." 

"All  right,"  he  shouted  back,  and  then  to  his 
white,  quivering,  helpless  quarry: 

"I'll  let  ye  off  this  time,  but  next  time " 

"I'll  be  ready  fer  ye,"  broke  in  Jason. 

The  lad's  mind  was  made  up  now.  He  put  the 
old  nag  in  a  lope  down  the  rocky  creek.  He  did 
not  even  go  to  his  grandfather's  for  dinner,  but 
turned  at  the  river  in  a  gallop  for  town.  The 
rock-pecker,  and  even  Mavis,  were  gone  from  his 
mind,  and  the  money  in  his  pocket  was  going,  not 
for  love  or  learning,  but  for  pistol  and  cartridge 
now. 


73 


IX 

CEPTEMBER  in  the  Blue-grass.  The  earth 
^  cooling  from  the  summer's  heat,  the  nights 
vigorous  and  chill,  the  fields  greening  with  a  sec 
ond  spring.  Skies  long,  low,  hazy,  and  gently 
arched  over  rolling  field  and  meadow  and  wood 
land.  The  trees  gray  with  the  dust  that  had 
sifted  all  summer  long  from  the  limestone  turn 
pikes.  The  streams  shrunken  to  rivulets  that 
trickled  through  crevices  between  broad  flat  stones 
and  oozed  through  beds  of  water-cress  and  crow 
foot,  horse-mint  and  pickerel-weed,  the  wells  low, 
cisterns  empty,  and  recourse  for  water  to  barrels 
and  the  sunken  ponds.  The  farmers  cutting  corn, 
still  green,  for  stock,  and  ploughing  ragweed 
strongholds  for  the  sowing  of  wheat.  The  hemp 
an  Indian  village  of  gray  wigwams.  And  a  time 
of  weeds — indeed  the  heyday  of  weeds  of  every 
kind,  and  the  harvest  time  for  the  king  weed  of 
them  all.  Everywhere  his  yellow  robes  were  hang 
ing  to  poles  and  drying  in  the  warm  sun.  Every 
where  led  the  conquering  war  trail  of  the  unkingly 
usurper,  everywhere  in  his  wake  was  devastation. 
The  iron-weed  had  given  up  his  purple  crown, 
and  yellow  wheat,  silver-gray  oats,  and  rippling 
barley  had  fled  at  the  sight  of  his  banner  to  the 

74 


THE  HEART  OF  THE  HILLS 

open  sunny  spaces  as  though  to  make  their  last 
stand  an  indignant  appeal  that  all  might  see. 
Even  the  proud  woodlands  looked  ragged  and 
drooping,  for  here  and  there  the  ruthless  marauder 
had  flanked  one  and  driven  a  battalion  into  its 
very  heart,  and  here  and  there  charred  stumps 
told  plainly  how  he  had  overrun,  destroyed,  and 
ravished  the  virgin  soil  beneath.  A  fuzzy  little 
parasite  was  throttling  the  life  of  the  Kentuck- 
ians'  hemp.  A  bewhiskered  moralist  in  a  far 
northern  State  would  one  day  try  to  drive  the 
kings  of  his  racing-stable  to  the  plough.  A  med 
dling  band  of  fanatical  teetotalers  would  over 
throw  his  merry  monarch,  King  Barleycorn,  and 
the  harassed  son  of  the  Blue-grass,  whether  he 
would  or  not,  must  turn  to  the  new  pretender 
who  was  in  the  Kentuckians'  midst,  uninvited 
and  self-throned. 

And  with  King  Tobacco  were  coming  his  own 
human  vassals  that  were  to  prove  a  new  social 
discord  in  the  land — up  from  the  river-bottoms 
of  the  Ohio  and  down  from  the  foot-hills  of  the 
Cumberland — to  plant,  worm,  tend,  and  fit  those 
yellow  robes  to  be  stuffed  into  the  mouth  of  the 
world  and  spat  back  again  into  the  helpless  face 
of  the  earth.  And  these  vassals  were  supplant 
ing  native  humanity  as  the  plant  was  supplant 
ing  the  native  products  of  the  soil.  And  with 
them  and  the  new  king  were  due  in  time  a  train 
of  evils  to  that  native  humanity,  creating  disaf- 

75 


THE  HEART  OF  THE  HILLS 

faction,  dividing  households  against  themselves, 
and  threatening  with  ruin  the  lordly  social  struct 
ure  itself. 

But,  for  all  this,  the  land  that  early  Septem 
ber  morning  was  a  land  of  peace  and  plenty,  and 
in  field,  meadow,  and  woodland  the  most  foreign 
note  of  the  landscape  was  a  spot  of  crimson  in 
the  crotch  of  a  high  staked  and  ridered  fence  on 
the  summit  of  a  little  hill,  and  that  spot  was  a 
little  girl.  She  had  on  an  old-fashioned  poke- 
bonnet  of  deep  pink,  her  red  dress  was  of  old-fash 
ioned  homespun,  her  stockings  were  of  yarn,  and 
her  rough  shoes  should  have  been  on  the  feet  of 
a  boy.  Had  the  vanished  forests  and  cane-brakes 
of  the  eighteenth  century  covered  the  land,  had 
the  wild  beasts  and  wild  men  come  back  to  roam 
them,  had  the  little  girl's  home  been  a  stockade 
on  the  edge  of  the  wilderness,  she  would  have 
fitted  perfectly  to  the  time  and  the  scene,  as  a 
little  daughter  of  Daniel  Boone.  As  it  was,  she 
felt  no  less  foreign  than  she  looked,  for  the  strange 
ness  of  the  land  and  of  the  people  still  possessed 
her  so  that  her  native  shyness  had  sunk  to  depths 
that  were  painful.  She  had  a  new  ordeal  before 
her  now,  for  in  her  sinewy  little  hands  were  a 
paper  bag,  a  first  reader,  and  a  spelling-book,  and 
she  was  on  her  way  to  school.  Beneath  her  the 
white  turnpike  wound  around  the  hill  and  down 
into  a  little  hollow,  and  on  the  crest  of  the  next 
low  hill  was  a  little  frame  house  with  a  belfry  on 


THE  HEART  OF  THE 

top.  Even  while  she  sat  there  tth  parted  tips, 
her  face  in  a  tense  dream  and  her  eyes  dark  with 
dread  and  indecision,  the  bell  fron  •  lie  little  school*- 
house  clanged  through  the  still  air  with  a  sudden, 
sharp  summons  that  was  so  peremptory  and  per 
sonal  that  she  was  almost  startled  from  her  perch. 
Not  daring  to  loiter  any  longer,  she  leaped  lightly 
to  the  ground  and  started  in  breathless  haste  up 
and  over  the  hill.  As  she  went  down  it,  she  could 
see  horses  hitched  to  the  fence  around  the  yard 
and  school-children  crowding  upon  the  porch  and 
filing  into  the  door.  The  last  one  had  gone  in 
before  she  reached  the  school-house  gate,  and 
she  stopped  with  a  thumping  heart  that  quite 
failed  her  then  and  there,  for  she  retreated  back 
ward  through  the  gate,  to  be  sure  that  no  one 
saw  her,  crept  along  the  stone  wall,  turned  into 
a  lane,  and  climbed  a  worm  fence  into  the  woods 
behind  the  school-house.  There  she  sat  down 
on  a  log,  miserably  alone,  and  over  the  sunny 
strange  slopes  of  this  new  world,  on  over  the  foot 
hills,  her  mind  flashed  to  the  big  far-away  moun 
tains  and,  dropping  her  face  into  her  hands,  she 
began  to  sob  out  her  loneliness  and  sorrow.  The 
cry  did  her  good,  and  by  and  by  she  lifted  her 
head,  rubbed  her  reddened  eyes  with  the  back  of 
one  hand,  half  rose  to  go  to  the  school-house,  and 
sank  helplessly  down  on  the  thick  grass  by  the 
side  of  the  log.  The  sun  beat  warmly  and  sooth 
ingly  down  on  her.  The  grass  and  even  the  log 

77 


THE  HEART  OF  THE  HILLS 

against  her  shoulders  were  warm  and  comforting, 
and  the  hum  of  insects  about  her  was  so  drowsy 
that  she  yawned  and  settled  deeper  into  the  grass, 
and  presently  she  passed  into  sleep  and  dreams 
of  Jason.  Jason  was  in  the  feud.  She  could  see 
him  crouched  in  some  bushes  and  peering  through 
them  on  the  lookout  evidently  for  some  Honey- 
cutt;  and  slipping  up  the  other  side  of  the  hill 
was  a  Honeycutt  looking  for  Jason.  Somehow 
she  knew  it  was  the  Honeycutt  who  had  slain  the 
boy's  father,  and  she  saw  the  man  creep  through 
the  brush  and  worm  his  way  on  his  belly  to  a 
stump  above  where  Jason  sat.  She  saw  him 
thrust  his  Winchester  through  the  leaves,  she 
tried  to  shriek  a  warning  to  Jason,  and  she  awoke 
so  weak  with  terror  that  she  could  hardly  scram 
ble  to  her  feet.  Just  then  the  air  was  rent  with 
shrill  cries,  she  saw  school-boys  piling  over  a 
fence  and  rushing  toward  her  hiding-place,  and, 
her  wits  yet  ungathered,  she  turned  and  fled  in 
terror  down  the  hill,  nor  did  she  stop  until  the 
cries  behind  her  grew  faint;  and  then  she  was 
much  ashamed  of  herself.  Nobody  was  in  pur 
suit  of  her — it  was  the  dream  that  had  frightened 
her.  She  could  almost  step  on  the  head  of  her  own 
shadow  now,  and  that  fact  and  a  pang  of  hunger 
told  her  it  was  noon.  It  was  noon  recess  back  at 
the  school  and  those  school-boys  were  on  their 
way  to  a  playground.  She  had  left  her  lunch 
at  the  log  where  she  slept,  and  so  she  made  her 

78 


DEART  OF  THE  HILLS 

way  back  to  it,  just  in  time  to  see  two  boys  pounce 
on  the  little  paper  bag  lying  in  the  grass.  There 
was  no  shyness  about  her  then — that  bag  was  hers 
— and  she  flashed  forward. 

" Gimme  that  poke!" 

The  wrestling  stopped  and,  startled  by  the  cry 
and  the  apparition,  the  two  boys  fell  apart. 

"What?"  said  the  one  with  the  bag  in  his  hand, 
while  the  other  stared  at  Mavis  with  puzzled 
amazement. 

"Gimme  that  poke!"  blazed  the  girl,  and  the 
boy  laughed,  for  the  word  has  almost  passed  from 
the  vocabulary  of  the  Blue-grass.  He  held  it  high. 

"Jump  for  it!"  he  teased. 

"I  hain't  goin'  to  jump  fer  it — hit's  mine." 

Her  hands  clenched  and  she  started  slowly 
toward  him. 

"Give  her  the  bag,"  said  the  other  boy  so  im 
peratively  that  the  little  girl  stopped  with  a  quick 
and  trustful  shift  of  her  own  burden  to  him. 

"She's  got  to  jump  for  it!" 

The  other  boy  smiled,  and  it  strangely  seemed 
to  Mavis  that  she  had  seen  that  smile  before. 

"Oh,  I  reckon  not,"  he  said  quietly,  and  in  a 
trice  the  two  boys  in  a  close,  fierce  grapple  were 
rocking  before  her  and  the  boy  with  the  bag  went 
to  the  earth  first. 

"Gouge  him!"  shrieked  the  mountain  girl,  and 
she  rushed  to  them  while  they  were  struggling, 
snatched  the  bag  from  the  loosened  fingers,  and, 

79 


THE  HEART  OF  THE  HILLS 

seeing  the  other  boys  on  a  run  for  the  scene,  fled 
for  the  lane.  From  the  other  side  of  the  fence 
she  saw  the  two  lads  rise,  one  still  smiling,  the 
other  crying  with  anger;  the  school-bell  clanged 
and  she  was  again  alone.  Hurriedly  she  ate  the 
bacon  and  corn-bread  in  the  bag  and  then  she 
made  her  way  back  along  the  lane,  by  the  stone 
wall,  through  the  school-house  gate,  and  gather 
ing  her  courage  with  one  deep  breath,  she  climbed 
the  steps  resolutely  and  stood  before  the  open 
door. 

The  teacher,  a  tall  man  in  a  long  black  frock- 
coat,  had  his  back  to  her,  the  room  was  crowded, 
and  she  saw  no  vacant  seat.  Every  pair  of  eyes 
within  was  raised  to  her,  and  instantly  she  caught 
another  surprised  and  puzzled  stare  from  the 
boy  who  had  taken  her  part  a  little  while  be 
fore.  The  teacher,  seeing  the  attention  of  his 
pupils  fixed  somewhere  behind  him,  turned  to 
see  the  quaint  figure,  dismayed  and  helpless,  in 
the  doorway,  and  he  went  quickly  toward  her. 

"This  way,"  he  said  kindly,  and  pointing  to  a 
seat,  he  turned  again  to  his  pupils. 

Still  they  stared  toward  the  new-comer,  and  he 
turned  again.  The  little  girl's  flushed  face  was 
still  hidden  by  her  bonnet,  but  before  he  reached 
her  to  tell  her  quietly  she  must  take  it  off,  she  had 
seen  that  all  the  heads  about  her  were  bare  and 
was  pulling  it  off  herself — disclosing  a  riotous  mass 
of  black  hair,  combed  straight  back  from  her  fore 
go 


THE  HEART  OF  THE  HILLS 

head  and  gathered  into  a  Psyche  knot  at  the  back 
of  her  head.  Slowly  the  flush  passed,  but  not  for 
some  time  did  she  lift  the  extraordinary  lashes 
that  veiled  her  eyes  to  take  a  furtive  glance  about 
her.  But,  as  the  pupils  bent  more  to  their  books, 
she  grew  bolder  and  looked  about  oftener  and 
keenly,  and  she  saw  with  her  own  eyes  and  in 
every  pair  of  eyes  whose  glance  she  met,  how  dif 
ferent  she  was  from  all  the  other  girls.  For  it 
was  a  look  of  wonder  and  amusement  that  she 
encountered  each  time,  and  sometimes  two  girls 
would  whisper  behind  their  hands  and  laugh,  or 
one  would  nudge  her  desk-mate  to  look  around 
at  the  stranger,  so  that  the  flush  came  back  to 
Mavis's  face  and  stayed  there.  The  tall  teacher 
saw,  too,  and  understood,  and,  to  draw  no  more 
attention  to  her  than  was  necessary,  he  did  not  go 
near  her  until  little  recess.  As  he  expected,  she 
did  not  move  from  her  seat  when  the  other  pupils 
trooped  out,  and  when  the  room  was  empty  he 
beckoned  her  to  come  to  his  desk,  and  in  a  mo 
ment,  with  her  two  books  clasped  in  her  hands, 
she  stood  shyly  before  him,  meeting  his  kind  gray 
searching  eyes  with  unwavering  directness. 

"You  were  rather  late  coming  to  school/' 

"I  was  afeerd."  The  teacher  smiled,  for  her 
eyes  were  fearless. 

"What  is  your  name?" 

"Mavis  Hawn." 

Her  voice  was  slow,  low,  and  rich,  and  in  some 
81 


THE  HEART  OF  THE  HILLS 

wonder  he  half  unconsciously  repeated  the  unusual 
name. 

"Where  do  you  live?" 

"Down  the  road  a  piece — 'bout  a  whoop  an'  a 
holler." 

"What?     Oh,  I  see." 

He  smiled,  for  she  meant  to  measure  distance 
by  sound,  and  she  had  used  merely  a  variation  of 
the  "far  cry"  of  Elizabethan  days. 

"Your  father  works  in  tobacco?"     She  nodded. 

"You  come  from  near  the  Ohio  River?" 

She  looked  puzzled. 

"I  come  from  the  mountains." 

"Oh!" 

He  understood  now  her  dress  and  speech,  and 
he  was  not  surprised  at  the  answer  to  his  next 
question. 

"I  hain't  nuver  been  to  school.  Pap  couldn't 
spare  me." 

"Can  you  read  and  write?" 

"No,"  she  said,  but  she  flushed,  and  he  knew 
straightway  the  sensitiveness  and  pride  with  which 
he  would  have  to  deal. 

"Well,"  he  said  kindly,  "we  will  begin  now." 

And  he  took  the  alphabet  and  told  her  the 
names  of  several  letters  and  had  her  try  to  make 
them  with  a  lead  pencil,  which  she  did  with  such 
uncanny  seriousness  and  quickness  that  the  pity 
of  it,  that  in  his  own  State  such  intelligence  should 
be  going  to  such  broadcast  waste  for  the  want  of 

82 


THE  HEART  OF  THE  HILLS 

such  elemental  opportunities,  struck  him  deeply. 
The  general  movement  to  save  that  waste  was 
only  just  beginning,  and  in  that  movement  he 
meant  to  play  his  part.  He  was  glad  now  to 
have  under  his  own  supervision  one  of  those 
mountaineers  of  whom,  but  for  one  summer,  he 
had  known  so  little  and  heard  so  much — chiefly 
to  their  discredit — and  he  determined  then  and 
there  to  do  all  he  could  for  her.  So  he  took  her 
back  to  her  seat  with  a  copy-book  and  pencil 
and  told  her  to  go  on  with  her  work,  and  that  he 
would  go  to  see  her  father  and  mother  as  soon  as 
possible. 

"I  hain't  got  no  mammy — hit's  a  step-mammy," 
she  said,  and  she  spoke  of  the  woman  as  of  a 
horse  or  a  cow,  and  again  he  smiled.  Then  as 
he  turned  away  he  repeated  her  name  to  himself 
and  with  a  sudden  wonder  turned  quickly  back. 

"I  used  to  know  some  Hawns  down  in  your 
mountains.  A  little  fellow  named  Jason  Hawn 
used  to  go  around  with  me  all  the  time." 

Her  eyes  filled  and  then  flashed  happily. 

"Why,  mebbe  you  air  the  rock-pecker?" 

"The  what?" 

"The  jologist.  Jason's  my  cousin.  I  wasn't 
thar  that  summer.  Jason's  always  talkin'  'bout 
you." 

"Well,  well — I  guess  I  am.     That  is  curious." 

"Jason's  mammy  was  a  Honeycutt  an'  she 
married  my  daddy  an'  they  run  away,"  she  went 
on  eagerly,  "an*  I  had  to  foller  'em." 

83 


THE  HEART  OF  THE  HILLS 

"Where's  Jason?"     Again  her  eyes  filled. 

"I  don't  know." 

John  Burnham  put  his  hand  on  her  head  gen 
tly  and  turned  to  his  desk.  He  rang  the  bell  and 
when  the  pupils  trooped  back  she  was  hard  at  work, 
and  she  felt  proud  when  she  observed  several 
girls  looking  back  to  see  what  she  was  doing,  and 
again  she  was  mystified  that  each  face  showed 
the  same  expression  of  wonder  and  of  something 
else  that  curiously  displeased  her,  and  she  won 
dered  afresh  why  it  was  that  everything  in  that 
strange  land  held  always  something  that  she 
could  never  understand.  But  a  disdainful  whis 
per  came  back  to  her  that  explained  it  all. 

"Why,  that  new  girl  is  only  learning  her  a-b-c's," 
said  a  girl,  and  her  desk-mate  turned  to  her  with 
a  quick  rebuke. 

"Don't— she'll  hear  you." 

Mavis  caught  the  latter's  eyes  that  instant, 
and  with  a  warm  glow  at  her  heart  looked  her 
gratitude,  and  then  she  almost  cried  her  surprise 
aloud — it  was  the  stranger-girl  who  had  been  in 
the  mountains — Marjorie.  The  girl  looked  back 
in  a  puzzled  way,  and  a  moment  later  Mavis  saw 
her  turn  to  look  again.  This  time  the  mountain 
girl  answered  with  a  shy  smile,  and  Marjorie  knew 
her,  nodded  in  a  gay,  friendly  way,  and  bent  her 
head  to  her  book. 

Presently  she  ran  her  eyes  down  the  benches 
where  the  boys  sat,  and  there  was  Gray  waiting 
apparently  for  her  to  look  around,  for  he  too  nod- 


THE  HEART  OF  THE  HILLS 

ded  gayly  to  her,  as  though  he  had  known  her 
from  the  start.  The  teacher  saw  the  exchange 
of  little  civilities  and  he  was  much  puzzled,  espe 
cially  when,  the  moment  school  was  over,  he  saw 
the  lad  hurry  to  catch  Marjorie,  and  the  two  then 
turn  together  toward  the  little  stranger.  Both 
thrust  out  their  hands,  and  the  little  mountain 
girl,  so  unaccustomed  to  polite  formalities,  was 
quite  helpless  with  embarrassment,  so  the  teacher 
went  over  to  help  her  out  and  Gray  explained : 

"Marjorie  and  I  stayed  with  her  grandfather, 
and  didn't  we  have  a  good  time,  Marjorie?" 

Marjorie  nodded  with  some  hesitation,  and 
Gray  went  on : 

"How — how  is  he  now?" 

"Grandpap's  right  peart  now." 

"And  how's  your  cousin — Jason?" 

The  question  sent  such  a  sudden  wave  of  home 
sickness  through  Mavis  that  her  answer  was 
choked,  and  Marjorie  understood  and  put  her 
arm  around  Mavis's  shoulder. 

"You  must  be  lonely  up  here.  Where  do  you 
live?"  And  when  she  tried  to  explain  Gray  broke 
in. 

"Why,  you  must  be  one  of  our  ten — you  must 
live  on  our  farm.  Isn't  that  funny?" 

"And  I  live  further  down  the  road  across  the 
pike,"  said  Marjorie. 

"In  that  great  big  house  in  the  woods?" 

"Yes,"  nodded  Marjorie,  "and  you  must  come 


to  see  me." 


THE  HEART  OF  THE  HILLS 

Mavis's  eyes  had  the  light  of  gladness  in  them 
now,  and  through  them  looked  a  grateful  heart. 
Outside,  Gray  got  Marjorie's  pony  for  her,  the 
two  mounted,  rode  out  the  gate  and  went  down 
the  pike  at  a  gallop,  and  Marjorie  whirled  in  her 
saddle  to  wave  her  bonnet  back  at  the  little  moun 
taineer.  The  teacher,  who  stood  near  watching 
them,  turned  to  go  back  and  close  up  the  school- 
house. 

"Fm  coming  to  see  your  father,  and  we'll  get 
some  books,  and  you  are  going  to  study  so  hard 
that  you  won't  have  time  to  get  homesick  any 
more,"  he  said  kindly,  and  Mavis  started  down 
the  road,  climbed  the  staked  and  ridered  fence, 
and  made  her  way  across  the  fields.  She  had 
been  lonely,  and  now  homesickness  came  back 
to  her  worse  than  ever.  She  wondered  about 
Jason — where  he  was  and  what  he  was  doing  and 
whether  she  would  ever  see  him  again.  The 
memory  of  her  parting  with  him  came  back  to 
her — how  he  looked  as  she  saw  him  for  the  last 
time  sitting  on  his  old  nag,  sturdy  and  apparently 
unmoved,  and  riding  out  of  her  sight  in  just  that 
way;  and  she  heard  again  his  last  words  as  though 
they  were  sounding  then  in  her  ears  : 

"Fm  a-goin'  to  come  an'  git  you — some  day." 

Since  that  day  she  had  heard  of  him  but  once, 
and  that  was  lately,  when  Arch  Hawn  had  come 
to  see  her  father  and  the  two  had  talked  a  long 
time.  They  were  all  well,  Arch  said,  down  in 
the  mountains.  Jason  had  come  back  from  the 

86 


THE  HEART  OF  THE  HILLS 

settlement  school.  Little  Aaron  Honeycutt  had 
bantered  him  in  the  road  and  Jason  had  gone 
wild.  He  had  galloped  down  to  town,  bought  a 
Colt's  forty-five  and  a  pint  of  whiskey,  had  ridden 
right  up  to  old  Aaron  Honeycutt's  gate,  shot  off 
his  pistol,  and  dared  little  Aaron  to  come  out  and 
fight.  Little  Aaron  wanted  to  go,  but  old  Aaron 
held  him  back,  and  Jason  sat  on  his  nag  at  the 
gate  and  "cussed  out"  the  whole  tribe,  and  swore 
"he'd  kill  every  dad-blasted  one  of  'em  if  only 
to  git  the  feller  who  shot  his  daddy."  Old  Aaron 
had  behaved  mighty  well,  and  he  and  old  Jason 
had  sent  each  other  word  that  they  would  keep 
both  the  boys  out  of  the  trouble.  Then  Arch 
had  brought  about  another  truce  and  little  Jason 
had  worked  his  crop  and  was  making  a  man  of 
himself.  It  was  Archer  Hawn  who  had  insisted 
that  Mavis  herself  should  go  to  school  and  had 
agreed  to  pay  all  her  expenses,  but  in  spite  of  her 
joy  at  that,  she  was  heart-broken  when  he  was 
gone,  and  when  she  caught  her  step-mother  weep 
ing  in  the  kitchen  a  vague  sympathy  had  drawn 
them  for  the  first  time  a  little  nearer  together. 

From  the  top  of  the  little  hill  her  new  home 
was  visible  across  a  creek  and  by  the  edge  of  a 
lane.  As  she  crossed  a  foot-bridge  and  made  her 
way  noiselessly  along  the  dirt  road  she  heard 
voices  around  a  curve  of  the  lane  and  she  came 
upon  a  group  of  men  leaning  against  a  fence. 
In  the  midst  of  them  was  her  father,  and  they 


THE  HEART  OF  THE  HILLS 

were  arguing  with  him  earnestly  and  he  was  shak 
ing  his  head. 

"Them  toll-gates  hain't  a-hurtin'  me  none," 
she  heard  him  drawl.  "I  don't  understand  this 
business,  an'  I  hain't  goin'  to  git  mixed  up  in 
hit." 

Then  he  saw  her  coming  and  he  stopped,  and 
the  others  looked  at  her  uneasily,  she  thought, 
as  if  wondering  what  she  might  have  heard. 

"Go  on  home,  Mavis,"  he  said  shortly,  and  as 
she  passed  on  no  one  spoke  until  she  was  out  of 
hearing.  Some  mischief  was  afoot,  but  she  was 
not  worried,  nor  was  her  interest  aroused  at  all. 

A  moment  later  she  could  see  her  step-mother 
seated  on  her  porch  and  idling  in  the  warm  sun. 
The  new  home  was  a  little  frame  house,  neat  and 
well  built.  There  was  a  good  fence  around  the 
yard  and  the  garden,  and  behind  the  garden  was 
an  orchard  of  peach-trees  and  apple-trees.  The 
house  was  guttered  and  behind  the  kitchen  was 
a  tiny  grape-arbor,  a  hen-house,  and  a  cistern — 
all  strange  appurtenances  to  Mavis.  The  two 
spoke  only  with  a  meeting  of  the  eyes,  and  while 
the  woman  looked  her  curiosity  she  asked  no 
questions,  and  Mavis  volunteered  no  informa 
tion. 

"Did  you  see  Steve  a-talkin'  to  some  fellers 
down  the  road?" 

Mavis  nodded. 

"Did  ye  hear  whut  they  was  talkin'  about?" 
88 


THE  HEART  OF  THE  HILLS 

"Somethin'  about  the  toll-gates." 

A  long  silence  followed. 

"The  teacher  said  he  was  comin'  over  to  see 
you  and  pap." 

"Whutfer?" 

"I  dunno." 

After  another  silence  Mavis  went  on: 

"The  teacher  is  that  rock-pecker  Jason  was 
always  a-talkin'  'bout." 

The  woman's  interest  was  aroused  now,  for 
she  wondered  if  he  were  coming  over  to  ask  her 
any  troublesome  questions. 

"Well,  ain't  that  queer!" 

"An'  that  boy  an'  gal  who  was  a-stayin'  with 
grandpap  was  thar  at  school  too,  an'  she  axed 
me  to  come  over  an'  see  her." 

This  the  step-mother  was  not  surprised  to  hear, 
for  she  knew  on  whose  farm  they  were  living  and 
why  they  were  there,  and  she  had  her  own  rea 
sons  for  keeping  the  facts  from  Mavis. 

"Well,  you  oughter  go." 

"I  am  a-goin'." 

Mavis  missed  the  mountains  miserably  when 
she  went  to  bed  that  night — missed  the  gloom 
and  lift  of  them  through  her  window,  and  the 
rolling  sweep  of  the  land  under  the  moon  looked 
desolate  and  lonely  and  more  than  ever  strange. 
A  loping  horse  passed  on  the  turnpike,  and  she 
could  hear  it  coming  on  the  hard  road  far  away 
and  going  far  away;  then  a  buggy  and  then  a 


THE  HEART  OF  THE  HILLS 

clattering  group  of  horsemen,  and  indeed  every 
thing  heralded  its  approach  at  a  great  distance. 
She  missed  the  stillness  of  the  hills,  for  on  the 
night  air  were  the  barking  of  dogs,  whinny  of 
horses,  lowing  of  cattle,  the  song  of  a  night- 
prowling  negro,  and  now  and  then  the  screech  of 
a  peacock.  She  missed  Jason  wretchedly,  too, 
for  there  had  been  so  much  talk  of  him  during  the 
day,  and  she  went  to  sleep  with  her  lashes  wet 
with  tears.  Some  time  during  the  night  she  was 
awakened  by  pistol-shots,  and  her  dream  of  Jason 
made  her  think  that  she  was  at  home  again.  But 
no  mountains  met  her  startled  eyes  through  the 
window.  Instead  a  red  glare  hung  above  the 
woods,  there  was  the  clatter  of  hoofs  on  the  pike, 
and  flames  shot  above  the  tops  of  the  trees.  Nor 
could  it  be  a  forest  fire  such  as  was  common  at 
home,  for  the  woods  were  not  thick  enough.  This 
land,  it  seemed,  had  troubles  of  its  own,  as  did 
her  mountains,  but  at  least  folks  did  not  burn 
folks'  houses  in  the  hills. 


90 


the  top  of  a  bushy  foot-hill  the  old  nag 
stopped,  lifted  her  head,  and  threw  her  ears 
forward  as  though  to  gaze,  like  any  traveller  to 
a  strange  land,  upon  the  rolling  expanse  beneath, 
and  the  lad  on  her  back  voiced  her  surprise  and 
his  own  with  a  long,  low  whistle  of  amazement. 
He  folded  his  hands  on  the  pommel  of  his  saddle 
and  the  two  searched  the  plains  below  long  and 
hard,  for  neither  knew  so  much  level  land  was 
spread  out  anywhere  on  the  face  of  the  earth. 
The  lad  had  a  huge  pistol  buckled  around  him; 
he  looked  half  dead  with  sleeplessness  and  the 
old  nag  was  weary  and  sore,  for  Jason  was  in 
flight  from  trouble  back  in  those  hills.  He  had 
kept  his  promise  to  his  grandfather  that  summer, 
as  little  Aaron  Honeycutt  had  kept  his.  Neither 
had  taken  part  in  the  feud,  and  even  after  the 
truce  came,  each  had  kept  out  of  the  other's  way. 
When  Jason's  corn  was  gathered  there  was  noth 
ing  for  him  to  do  and  the  lad  had  grown  restless. 
While  roaming  the  woods  one  day,  a  pheasant 
had  hurtled  over  his  head.  He  had  followed  it, 
sighted  it,  and  was  sinking  down  behind  a  bowl 
der  to  get  a  rest  for  his  pistol  when  the  voices  of 


THE  HEART  OF  THE  HILLS 

two  Honeycutts  who  had  met  in  the  road  just 
under  him  stopped  his  finger  on  the  trigger. 

"That  boy's  a-goin*  to  bust  loose  some  day," 
said  one  voice.  "I've  heerd  him  a-shootin'  at  a 
tree  every  day  for  a  month  up  thar  above  his 
corn-field." 

"Oh,  no,  he  ain't,"  said  the  other.  "He's 
just  gittin'  ready  fer  the  man  who  shot  his  daddy." 

"Well,  who  the  hell  was  the  feller?" 

The  other  man  laughed,  lowered  his  voice,  and 
the  heart  of  the  listening  lad  thumped  painfully 
against  the  bowlder  under  him. 

"Well,  I  hain't  nuver  told  hit  afore,  but  I  seed 
with  my  own  eyes  a  feller  sneakin'  outen  the 
bushes  ten  minutes  atter  the  shot  was  fired,  an' 
hit  was  Babe  Honeycutt." 

A  low  whistle  followed  and  the  two  rode  on. 
The  pheasant  squatted  to  his  limb  undisturbed, 
and  the  lad  lay  gripping  the  bowlder  with  both 
hands.  He  rose  presently,  his  face  sick  but  reso 
lute,  slipped  down  into  the  road,  and,  swaying  his 
head  with  rage,  started  up  the  hill  toward  the 
Honeycutt  cove.  On  top  of  the  hill  the  road 
made  a  sharp  curve  and  around  that  curve,  as 
fate  would  have  it,  slouched  the  giant  figure  of 
his  mother's  brother.  Babe  shouted  pleasantly, 
stopped  in  sheer  amazement  when  he  saw  Jason 
whip  his  revolver  from  his  holster,  and,  with  no 
movement  to  draw  his  own,  leaped  for  the  bushes. 
Coolly  the  lad  levelled,  and  when  his  pistol  spoke, 

92 


THE  HEART  OF  THE  HILLS 

Babe's  mighty  arms  flew  above  his  head  and  the 
boy  heard  his  heavy  body  crash  down  into  the 
undergrowth.  In  the  terrible  stillness  that  fol 
lowed  the  boy  stood  shaking  in  his  tracks — stood 
until  he  heard  the  clatter  of  horses'  hoofs  in  the 
creek-bed  far  below.  The  two  Honeycutts  had 
heard  the  shot,  they  were  coming  back  to  see  what 
the  matter  was,  and  Jason  sped  as  if  winged  back 
down  the  creek.  He  had  broken  the  truce,  his 
grandfather  would  be  in  a  rage,  the  Honeycutts 
would  be  after  him,  and  those  hills  were  no  place 
for  him.  So  all  that  day  and  through  all  that 
night  he  fled  for  the  big  settlements  of  the  Blue- 
grass  and  but  half  consciously  toward  his  mother 
and  Mavis  Hawn.  The  fact  that  Babe  was  his 
mother's  brother  weighed  on  his  mind  but  little, 
for  the  webs  of  kinship  get  strangely  tangled  in 
a  mountain  feud  and  his  mother  could  not  and 
would  not  blame  him.  Nor  was  there  remorse 
or  even  regret  in  his  heart,  but  rather  the  peace 
of  an  oath  fulfilled — a  duty  done. 

The  sun  was  just  coming  up  over  the  great 
black  bulks  which  had  given  the  boy  forth  that 
morning  to  a  new  world.  Back  there  its  mighty 
rays  were  shattered  against  them,  and  routed  by 
their  shadows  had  fought  helplessly  on  against 
the  gloom  of  deep  ravines — those  fortresses  of 
perpetual  night — but,  once  they  cleared  the  emi 
nence  where  Jason  sat,  the  golden  arrows  took 
level  flight,  it  seemed,  for  the  very  end  of  the 

93 


THE  HEART  OF  THE  HILLS 

world.  This  was  the  land  of  the  Blue-grass — the 
home  of  the  rock-pecker,  home  of  the  men  who 
had  robbed  him  of  his  land,  the  refuge  to  his 
Cousin  Steve,  his  mother,  and  little  Mavis,  and 
now  their  home.  He  could  see  no  end  of  the  land, 
for  on  and  on  it  rolled,  and  on  and  on  as  far  as  it 
rolled  were  the  low  woodlands,  the  fields  of  cut 
corn — more  corn  than  he  knew  the  whole  world 
held — and  pastures  and  sheep  and  cattle  and 
horses,  and  houses  and  white  fences  and  big  white 
barns.  Little  Jason  gazed  but  he  could  not  get  his 
fill.  Perhaps  the  old  nag,  too,  knew  those  distant 
fields  for  corn,  for  with  a  whisk  of  her  stubby  tail 
she  started  of  her  own  accord  before  the  lad  could 
dig  his  bare  heels  into  her  bony  sides,  and  went 
slowly  down.  The  log  cabins  had  disappeared 
one  by  one,  and  most  of  the  houses  he  now  saw 
were  framed.  One,  however,  a  relic  of  pioneer 
times,  was  of  stone,  and  at  that  the  boy  looked 
curiously.  Several  were  of  red  brick  and  one 
had  a  massive  portico  with  great  towering  col 
umns,  and  at  that  he  looked  more  curiously  still. 
Darkies  were  at  work  in  the  fields.  He  had  seen 
only  two  or  three  in  his  life,  he  did  not  know 
there  were  so  many  in  the  world  as  he  saw  that 
morning,  and  now  his  skin  ruffled  with  some  antag 
onism  ages  deep.  Everybody  he  met  in  the  road 
or  passed  working  in  the  fields  gave  him  a  nod 
and  looked  curiously  at  his  big  pistol,  but  nobody 
asked  him  his  name  or  where  he  was  going  or 

94 


THE  HEART  OF  THE  HILLS 

what  his  business  was;  at  that  he  wondered,  for 
everybody  in  the  mountains  asked  those  ques 
tions  of  the  stranger,  and  he  had  all  the  lies  he 
meant  to  tell,  ready  for  any  emergency  to  cover 
his  tracks  from  any  possible  pursuers.  By  and 
by  he  came  to  a  road  that  stunned  him.  It  was 
level  and  smooth  and  made,  as  he  saw,  of  rocks 
pounded  fine,  and  the  old  nag  lifted  her  feet  and 
put  them  down  gingerly.  And  this  road  never 
stopped,  and  there  was  no  more  dirt  road  at  all. 
By  and  by  he  noticed  running  parallel  with  the 
turnpike  two  shining  lines  of  iron,  and  his  curiosity 
so  got  the  better  of  him  that  he  finally  got  off  his 
old  nag  and  climbed  the  fence  to  get  a  better 
look  at  them.  They  were  about  four  feet  apart, 
fastened  to  thick  pieces  of  timber,  and  they,  too, 
like  everything  else,  ran  on  and  on,  and  he 
mounted  and  rode  along  them  much  puzzled. 
Presently  far  ahead  of  him  there  was  a  sudden, 
unearthly  shriek,  the  rumbling  sound  of  a  coming 
storm,  rolling  black  smoke  beyond  the  crest  of  a 
little  hill,  and  a  swift  huge  mass  swept  into  sight 
and,  with  another  fearful  blast,  bore  straight  at 
him.  The  old  nag  snorted  with  terror,  and  in 
terror  dashed  up  the  hill,  while  the  boy  lay  back 
and  pulled  helplessly  on  the  reins.  When  he  got 
her  halted  the  thing  had  disappeared,  and  both 
boy  and  beast  turned  heads  toward  the  still  ter 
rible  sounds  of  its  going.  It  was  the  first  time 
either  had  ever  seen  a  railroad  train,  and  the  lad, 

95 


THE  HEART  OF  THE  HILLS 

with  a  sickly  smile  that  even  he  had  shared  the 
old  nag's  terror,  got  her  back  into  the  road.  At 
the  gate  sat  a  farmer  in  his  wagon  and  he  was 
smiling.  * 

"Did  she  come  purty  near  throwin'  you?" 

"  Huh ! "  grunted  Jason  contemptuously.  "  Whut 
was  that?" 

The  farmer  looked  incredulous,  but  the  lad  was 
serious. 

"That  was  a  railroad  train." 

"Danged  if  I  didn't  think  hit  was  a  saw-mill 
comin*  atter  me." 

The  farmer  laughed  and  looked  as  though  he 
were  going  to  ask  questions,  but  he  clucked  to  his 
horses  and  drove  on,  and  Jason  then  and  there 
swore  a  mighty  oath  to  himself  never  again  to  be 
surprised  by  anything  else  he  might  see  in  this 
new  land.  All  that  day  he  rode  slowly,  giving 
his  old  nag  two  hours'  rest  at  noon,  and  long  be 
fore  sundown  he  pulled  up  before  a  house  in  a 
cross-roads  settlement,  for  the  mountaineer  does 
not  travel  much  after  nightfall. 

"I  want  to  git  to  stay  all  night,"  he  said. 

The  man  smiled  and  understood,  for  no  moun 
taineer's  door  is  ever  closed  to  the  passing  stran 
ger  and  he  cannot  understand  that  any  door  can 
be  closed  to  him.  Jason  told  the  truth  that  night, 
for  he  had  to  ask  questions  himself — he  was  on 
his  way  to  see  his  mother  and  his  step-father  and 
his  cousin,  who  had  moved  down  from  the  moun- 


THE  HEART  OF  THE  HILLS 

tains,  and  to  his  great  satisfaction  he  learned  that 
it  was  a  ride  of  but  three  hours  more  to  Colonel 
Pendleton's. 

When  his  host  showed  him  to  his  room,  the  boy 
examined  his  pistol  with  such  care  while  he  was  un 
buckling  it,  that,  looking  up,  he  found  a  half-smile, 
half-frown,  and  no  little  suspicion,  in  his  host's 
face;  but  he  made  no  explanation,  and  he  slept 
that  night  with  one  ear  open,  for  he  was  not  sure 
yet  that  no  Honeycutt  might  be  following  him. 

Toward  morning  he  sprang  from  bed  wide 
awake,  alert,  caught  up  his  pistol  and  crept  to 
the  window.  Two  horsemen  were  at  the  gate. 
The  door  opened  below  him,  his  host  went  out, 
and  the  three  talked  in  whispers  for  a  while.  Then 
the  horsemen  rode  away,  his  host  came  back  into 
the  house,  and  all  was  still  again.  For  half  an 
hour  the  boy  waited,  his  every  nerve  alive  with 
suspicion.  Then  he  quietly  dressed,  left  half  a 
dollar  on  the  washstand,  crept  stealthily  down 
the  stairs  and  out  to  the  stable,  and  was  soon 
pushing  his  old  nag  at  a  weary  gallop  through  the 
dark. 


97 


XI 


last  sunset  had  been  clear  and  Jack  Frost 
had  got  busy.  All  the  preceding  day  the 
clouds  had  hung  low  and  kept  the  air  chill  so  that 
the  night  was  good  for  that  arch-imp  of  Satan  who 
has  got  himself  enshrined  in  the  hearts  of  little 
children.  At  dawn  Jason  saw  the  robe  of  pure 
white  which  the  little  magician  had  spun  and 
drawn  close  to  the  breast  of  the  earth.  The 
first  light  turned  it  silver  and  showed  it  decked 
with  flowers  and  jewels,  that  the  old  mother  might 
mistake  it,  perhaps,  for  a  wedding-gown  instead 
of  a  winding-sheet;  but  the  sun,  knowing  better, 
lifted,  let  loose  his  tiny  warriors,  and  from  pure 
love  of  beauty  smote  it  with  one  stroke  gold,  and 
the  battle  ended  with  the  blades  of  grass  and  the 
leaves  in  their  scarlet  finery  sparkling  with  the 
joy  of  another  day's  deliverance  and  the  fields 
grown  gray  and  aged  in  a  single  night.  Before 
the  fight  was  quite  over  that  morning,  saddle- 
horses  were  stepping  from  big  white  barns  in  the 
land  Jason  was  entering,  and  being  led  to  old- 
fashioned  stiles;  buggies,  phaetons,  and  rock- 
aways  were  emerging  from  turnpike  gates;  and 
rabbit-hunters  moved,  shouting,  laughing,  run- 


THE  HEART  OF  THE  HILLS 

ning  races,  singing,  past  fields  sober  with  autumn, 
woods  dingy  with  oaks  and  streaked  with  the  fire 
of  sumac  and  maple.  On  each  side  of  the  road 
new  hemp  lay  in  shining  swaths,  while  bales  of 
last  year's  crop  were  on  the  way  to  market  along 
the  roads.  The  farmers  were  turning  over  the 
soil  for  the  autumn  sowing  of  wheat,  corn-shuck 
ing  was  over,  and  ragged  darkies  were  straggling 
from  the  fields  back  to  town.  From  every  point 
the  hunters  came,  turning  in  where  a  big  s'quare 
brick  house  with  a  Grecian  portico  stood  far  back 
in  a  wooded  yard,  with  a  fish-pond  on  one  side 
and  a  great  smooth  lawn  on  the  other.  On  the 
steps  between  the  columns  stood  Colonel  Pendle- 
ton  and  Gray  and  Marjorie  welcoming  the  guests; 
the  men,  sturdy  country  youths,  good  types  of 
the  beef-eating  young  English  squire — sunburnt 
fellows  with  big  frames,  open  faces,  fearless  eyes, 
and  a  manner  that  was  easy,  cordial,  kindly,  inde 
pendent;  the  girls  midway  between  the  types  of 
brunette  and  blonde,  with  a  leaning  toward  the 
latter  type,  with  hair  that  had  caught  the  light 
of  the  sun,  radiant  with  freshness  and  good  health 
and  strength;  round  of  figure,  clear  of  eye  and 
skin,  spirited,  soft  of  voice,  and  slow  of  speech. 
Soon  a  cavalcade  moved  through  a  side-gate  of 
the  yard,  through  a  Blue-grass  woodland,  and  into 
a  sweep  of  stubble  and  ragweed;  and  far  up  the 
road  on  top  of  a  little  hill  the  mountain  boy 
stopped  his  old  mare  and  watched  a  strange  sight 

99 


THE  HEART  OF  THE  HILLS 

in  a  strange  land — a  hunt  without  dog,  stick,  or 
gun.  A  high  ringing  voice  reached  his  ears  clearly, 
even  that  far  away: 

"Formaline!" 

And  the  wondering  lad  saw  man  and  woman 
aligning  themselves  like  cavalry  fifteen  feet  apart 
and  moving  across  the  field — the  men  in  leggings 
or  high  boots,  riding  with  the  heel  low  a*nd  the 
toes  turned  according  to  temperament;  the  girls 
with  a  cap,  a  derby,  or  a  beaver  with  a  white 
veil,  and  the  lad's  eye  caught  one  of  them  quickly, 
for  a  red  tam-o'-shanter  had  slipped  from  her 
shining  hair  and  a  broad  white  girth  ran  around 
both  her  saddle  and  her  horse.  There  was  one 
man  on  a  sorrel  mule  and  he  was  the  host  at 
the  big  house,  for  Colonel  Pendleton  had  surren 
dered  every  horse  he  had  to  a  guest.  Suddenly 
there  came  a  yell — the  rebel  yell — and  a  horse 
leaped  forward.  Other  horses  leaped  too,  every 
body  yelled  in  answer,  and  the  cavalcade  swept 
forward.  There  was  a  massing  of  horses,  the 
white  girth  flashing  in  the  midst  of  the  melee,  a 
great  crash  and  much  turning,  twisting,  and  saw 
ing  of  bits,  and  then  all  dashed  the  other  way,  the 
white  girth  in  the  lead,  and  the  boy's  lips  fell 
apart  in  wonder.  A  black  thoroughbred  was 
making  a  wide  sweep,  an  iron-gray  was  cutting 
in  behind,  and  all  were  sweeping  toward  him. 
Far  ahead  of  them  he  saw  a  frightened  rabbit 
streaking  through  the  weeds.  As  it  passed  him 

100 


THE  HEART  OF  ME  H1IXS 

the  lad  gave  a  yell,  dug  his  heels  into  the  old 
mare,  and  himself  swept  down  the  pike,  drawing 
his  revolver  and  firing  as  he  rode.  Five  times 
the  pistol  spoke  to  the  wondering  hunters  in  pur 
suit,  at  the  fifth  the  rabbit  tumbled  heels  over 
head  and  a  little  later  the  hunters  pulled  their 
horses  in  around  a  boy  holding  a  rabbit  high  in 
one  hand,  a  pistol  in  the  other,  and  his  eager  face 
flushed  with  pride  in  his  marksmanship  and  the 
comradeship  of  the  hunt.  But  the  flush  died  into 
quick  paleness,  so  hostile  were  the  faces,  so  hos 
tile  were  the  voices  that  assailed  him,  and  he 
dropped  the  rabbit  quickly  and  began  shoving 
fresh  cartridges  into  the  chambers  of  his  gun. 

"What  do  you  mean,  boy,"  shouted  an  angry 
voice,  "shooting  that  rabbit?" 

The  boy  looked  dazed. 

"Why,  wasn't  you  atter  him?" 

He  looked  around  and  in  a  moment  he  knew 
several  of  them,  but  nobody,  it  was  plain,  remem 
bered  him. 

The  girl  with  the  white  girth  was  Marjorie, 
the  boy  on  the  black  thoroughbred  was  Gray, 
and  coming  in  an  awkward  gallop  on  the  sorrel 
mule  was  Colonel  Pendleton.  None  of  these  peo 
ple  could  mean  to  do  him  harm,  so  Jason  dropped 
his  pistol  in  his  holster  and,  with  a  curious  dig 
nity  for  so  ragged  an  atom,  turned  in  silence  away, 
and  only  the  girl  with  the  white  girth  noticed  the 
quiver  of  his  lips  and  the  angry  starting  of  tears. 

101 


THE  HEART  OF  THE  HILLS 

As  he  started  to  mount  the  old  mare,  the  ex 
cited  yells  coming  from  the  fields  were  too  much 
for  him,  and  he  climbed  back  on  the  fence  to 
watch.  The  hunters  had  parted  in  twain,  the 
black  thoroughbred  leading  one  wing,  the  iron- 
gray  the  other — both  after  a  scurrying  rabbit. 
Close  behind  the  black  horse  was  the  white  girth 
and  close  behind  was  a  pony  in  full  run.  Under 
the  brow  of  the  hill  they  swept  and  parallel  with 
the  fence,  and  as  they  went  by  the  boy  strained 
eager  widening  eyes,  for  on  the  pony  was  his 
cousin  Mavis  Hawn,  bending  over  her  saddle  and 
yelling  like  mad.  This  way  and  that  poor  Mollie 
swerved,  but  every  way  her  big  startled  eyes 
turned,  that  way  she  saw  a  huge  beast  and  a  yell 
ing  demon  bearing  down  on  her.  Again  the 
horses  crashed,  the  pony  in  the  very  midst.  Gray 
threw  himself  from  his  saddle  and  was  after  her 
on  foot.  Two  others  swung  from  their  saddles, 
Mollie  made  several  helpless  hops,  and  the  three 
scrambled  for  her.  The  riders  in  front  cried  for 
those  behind  to  hold  their  horses  back,  but  they 
crowded  on  and  Jason  rose  upright  on  the  fence 
to  see  who  should  be  trampled  down.  Poor  Mol 
lie  was  quite  hemmed  in  now,  there  was  no  way 
of  escape,  and  instinctively  she  shrank  frightened 
to  the  earth.  That  was  the  crucial  instant,  and 
down  went  Gray  on  top  of  her  as  though  she  were 
a  foot-ball,  and  the  quarry  was  his.  Jason  saw 
him  give  her  one  blow  behind  her  long  ears  and 

102 


THE  HEART  OF  THE  HILLS 

then,  holding  a  little  puff  of  down  aloft,  look 
about  him,  past  Marjorie  to  Mavis.  A  moment 
later  he  saw  that  rabbit's  tail  pinned  to  Mavis's 
cap,  and  a  sudden  rage  of  jealousy  nearly  shook 
him  from  the  fence.  He  was  too  far  away  to  see 
Marjorie's  smile,  but  he  did  see  her  eyes  rove  about 
the  field  and  apparently  catch  sight  of  him,  and 
as  the  rest  turned  to  the  hunt  she  rode  straight 
for  him,  for  she  remembered  the  distress  of  his 
face  and  he  looked  lonely. 

"Little  boy,"  she  called,  and  the  boy  stared 
with  amazement  and  rage,  but  the  joke  was  too 
much  for  him  and  he  laughed  scornfully. 

"Little  gal,"  he  mimicked,  "air  you  a-talkin' 
tome?" 

The  girl  gasped,  reddened,  lifted  her  chin 
haughtily,  and  raised  her  riding-whip  to  whirl 
away  from  the  rude  little  stranger,  but  his  steady 
eyes  held  hers  until  a  flash  of  recognition  came 
— and  she  smiled. 

"Well,  I  never— Uncle  Bob!"  she  cried  ex 
citedly  and  imperiously,  and  as  the  colonel  lum 
bered  toward  her  on  his  sorrel  mount,  she  called 
with  sparkling  eyes,  "don't  you  know  him?" 

The  puzzled  face  of  the  colonel  broke  into  a 
hearty  smile. 

"Well,  bless  my  soul,  it's  Jason.  You've  come 
up  to  see  your  folks?" 

And  then  he  explained  what  Marjorie  meant  to 
explain. 

103 


THE  HEART  OF  THE  HILLS 

"We're  not  hunting  with  guns — we  just  chase 
'em.  Hang  your  artillery  on  a  fence-rail,  bring 
your  horse  through  that  gate,  and  join  us." 

He  turned  and  Marjorie,  with  him,  called  back 
over  her  shoulder:  "Hurry  up  now,  Jason/' 

Little  Jason  sat  still,  but  he  saw  Marjorie  ride 
straight  for  the  pony,  he  heard  her  cry  to  Mavis, 
saw  her  wave  one  hand  toward  him,  and  then 
Mavis  rode  for  him  at  a  gallop,  waving  her  whip 
to  him  as  she  came.  The  boy  gave  no  answering 
signal,  but  sat  still,  hard-eyed,  cool.  Before  she 
was  within  twenty  yards  of  him  he  had  taken  in 
every  detail  of  the  changes  in  her  and  the  level 
look  of  his  eyes  stopped  her  happy  cry,  and  made 
her  grow  quite  pale  with  the  old  terror  of  giv 
ing  him  offence.  Her  hair  looked  different,  her 
clothes  were  different,  she  wore  gloves,  and  she 
had  a  stick  in  one  hand  with  a  head  like  a  cane 
and  a  loop  of  leather  at  the  other  end.  For  these 
drawbacks,  the  old  light  in  her  eyes  and  face 
quite  failed  to  make  up,  for  while  Jason  looked, 
Mavis  was  looking,  too,  and  the  boy  saw  her  eyes 
travelling  him  down  from  head  to  foot:  somehow 
he  was  reminded  of  the  way  Marjorie  had  looked 
at  him  back  in  the  mountains  and  somehow  he 
felt  that  the  change  that  he  resented  in  Mavis 
went  deeper  than  her  clothes.  The  morbidly  sen 
sitive  spirit  of  the  mountaineer  in  him  was  hurt, 
the  chasm  yawned  instead  of  closing,  and  all  he 
said  shortly  was : 

104 


THE  HEART  OF  THE  HILLS 

"Whar'd  you  git  them  new-fangled  things?" 

"Marjorie  give  'em  to  me.  She  said  fer  you 
to  bring  yo'  hoss  in — hit's  more  fun  than  I  ever 
knowed  in  my  life  up  here." 

"Hit  is?"  he  half-sneered.  "Well,  you  git  back 
to  yo'  high-falutin'  friends  an'  tell  'em  I  don't 
hunt  nothin'  that-a-way." 

"I'll  stop  right  now  an'  go  home  with  ye.  I 
guess  you've  come  to  see  yo'  mammy." 

"Well,  I  hain't  ridin'  aroun'  just  fer  my  health 
exactly." 

He  had  suddenly  risen  on  the  fence  as  the 
cries  in  the  field  swelled  in  a  chorus.  Mavis  saw 
how  strong  the  temptation  within  him  was,  and 
so,  when  he  repeated  for  her  to  "go  on  back,"  the 
old  habit  of  obedience  turned  her,  but  she  knew  he 
would  soon  follow. 

The  field  was  going  mad  now,  horses  were  dash 
ing  and  crashing  together,  the  men  were  swinging 
to  the  ground  and  were  pushed  and  trampled  in 
a  wild  clutch  for  Mollie's  long  ears,  and  Jason 
could  see  that  the  contest  between  them  was  who 
should  get  the  most  game.  The  big  mule  was 
threshing  the  weeds  like  a  tornado,  and  crossing 
the  field  at  a  heavy  gallop  he  stopped  suddenly  at 
a  ditch,  the  girth  broke,  and  the  colonel  went 
over  the  long  ears.  There  was  a  shriek  of  laugh 
ter,  in  which  Jason  from  his  perch  joined,  as  with 
a  bray  of  freedom  the  mule  made  for  home.  Ap 
parently  that  field  was  hunted  out  now,  and  when 

105 


THE  HEART  OF  THE  HILLS 

the  hunters  crossed  another  pike  and  went  into- 
another  field  too  far  away  for  the  boy  to  see  the 
fun,  he  mounted  his  old  mare  and  rode  slowly 
after  them.  A  little  later  Mavis  heard  a  familiar 
yell,  and  Jason  flew  by  her  with  his  pistol  flopping 
on  his  hip,  his  hat  in  his  hand,  and  his  face  fren 
zied  and  gone  wild.  The  thoroughbred  passed 
him  like  a  swallow,  but  the  rabbit  twisted  back 
on  his  trail  and  Mavis  saw  Marjorie  leap  lightly 
from  her  saddle,  Jason  flung  himself  from  his,  and 
then  both  were  hidden  by  the  crush  of  horses 
around  them,  while  from  the  midst  rose  sharp  cries 
of  warning  and  fear. 

She  saw  Gray's  face  white  with  terror,  and  then 
she  saw  Marjorie  picking  herself  up  from  the 
ground  and  Jason  swaying  dizzily  on  his  feet  with 
a  rabbit  in  his  hand. 

"Tain't  nothin',"  he  said  stoutly,  and  he 
grinned  his  admiration  openly  for  Marjorie,  who 
looked  such  anxiety  for  him.  "You  ain't  afeerd 
o'  nothin',  air  ye,  an*  I  reckon  this  rabbit  tail  is 
a-goin'  to  you,"  and  he  handed  it  to  her  and  turned 
to  his  horse.  The  boy  had  jerked  Marjorie  from 
under  the  thoroughbred's  hoofs  and  then  gone  on 
recklessly  after  the  rabbit,  getting  a  glancing  blow 
from  one  of  those  hoofs  himself. 

Marjorie  smiled. 

"Thank  you,  little — man,"  and  Jason  grinned 
again,  but  his  head  was  dizzy  and  he  did  not  ride 
after  the  crowd. 

106 


THE  HEART  OF  THE  HILLS 

"I'm  afeerd  fer  this  ole  nag,"  he  lied  to  Colonel 
Pendleton,  for  he  was  faint  at  the  stomach  and  the 
world  had  begun  to  turn  around.  Then  he  made 
one  clutch  for  the  old  nag's  mane,  missed  it,  and 
rolled  senseless  to  the  ground. 

Not  long  afterward  he  opened  his  eyes  to  find 
his  head  in  the  colonel's  lap,  Marjorie  bathing 
his  forehead  with  a  wet  handkerchief,  and  Gray 
near  by,  still  a  little  pale  from  remorse  for  his 
carelessness  and  Marjorie's  narrow  escape,  and 
Mavis  the  most  unconcerned  of  all — and  he  was 
much  ashamed.  Rudely  he  brushed  Marjorie's 
consoling  hand  away  and  wriggled  away  from  the 
colonel  to  his  knees. 
,\(c,  "Shucks!"  he  said,  with  great  disgust. 

t  The  shadows  were  stretching  fast,  it  was  too 
late  to  try  another  field,  so  back  they  started 
through  the  radiant  air,  laughing,  talking,  ban 
tering,  living  over  the  incidents  of  the  day,  the 
men  with  one  leg  swung  for  rest  over  the  pom 
mel  of  their  saddles,  the  girls  with  habits  disor- 
9  dered  and  torn,  hair  down,  and  all  tired,  but  all 

h^iflushed,  clear-eyed,  happy.  The  leaves — russet, 
gold  and  crimson — were  dropping  to  the  autumn- 
greening  earth,  the  sunlight  was  as  yellow  as  the 
wings  of  a  butterfly,  and  on  the  horizon  was  a 
faint  haze  that  shadowed  the  coming  Indian  sum 
mer.  But  still  it  was  warm  enough  for  a  great 
spread  on  the  lawn,  and  what  a  feast  for  moun- 

107 


THE  HEART  OF  THE  HILLS 

tain  eyes — chicken,  turkey,  cold  ham,  pickles, 
croquettes,  creams,  jellies,  beaten  biscuits.  And 
what  happy  laughter  and  thoughtful  courtesy 
and  mellow  kindness — particularly  to  the  little 
mountain  pair,  for  in  the  mountains  they  had 
given  the  Pendletons  the  best  they  had  and  now 
the  best  was  theirs.  Inside  fires  were  being  lighted 
in  the  big  fireplaces,  and  quiet,  solid,  old-fash 
ioned  English  comfort  everywhere  the  blaze 
brought  out. 

Already  two  darky  fiddlers  were  waiting  on  the 
back  porch  for  a  dram,  and  when  the  darkness 
settled  the  fiddles  were  talking  old  tunes  and  nim 
ble  feet  were  busy.  Little  Jason  did  his  won 
derful  dancing  and  Gray  did  his;  and  round  about, 
the  window-seats  and  the  tall  columns  of  the 
porch  heard  again  from  lovers  what  they  had 
been  listening  to  for  so  long.  At  midnight  the 
hunters  rode  forth  again  in  pairs  into  the  crisp, 
brilliant  air  and  under  the  kindly  moon,  Mavis 
jogging  along  beside  Jason  on  Marjorie's  pony, 
for  Marjorie  would  not  have  it  otherwise.  No 
wonder  that  Mavis  loved  the  land. 

"I  jerked  the  gal  outen  the  way,"  explained 
Jason,  "'cause  she  was  a  gal  an*  had  no  business 
messin'  with  men  folks." 

"Of  co'se,"  Mavis  agreed,  for  she  was  just  as 
contemptuous  as  he  over  the  fuss  that  had  been 
made  of  the  incident. 

"But  she  ain't  afeerd  o'  nothinV 
108 


THE  HEART  OF  THE  HILLS 

This  was  a  little  too  much. 

"I  ain't  nuther." 

"Co'se  you  ain't." 

There  was  no  credit  for  Mavis — her  courage 
was  a  matter  of  course;  but  with  the  stranger- 
girl,  a  "furriner" — that  was  different.  There  was 
silence  for  a  while. 

"Wasn't  it  lots  o'  fun,  Jasie?" 

"Shore!"  was  the  absent-minded  answer,  for 
Jason  was  looking  at  the  strangeness  of  the  night. 
It  was  curious  not  to  see  the  big  bulks  of  the 
mountains  and  to  see  so  many  stars.  In  the 
mountains  he  had  to  look  straight  up  to  see  stars 
at  all  and  now  they  hung  almost  to  the  level  of 
his  eyes. 

"How's  the  folks?"  asked  Mavis. 

"Stirrin'.     Air  ye  goin'  to  school  up  here?" 

"Yes,  an'  who  you  reckon  the  school-teacher 
is?" 

Jason  shook  his  head. 

"The  jologist." 

"Well,  by  Heck." 

"An'  he's  always  axin'  me  about  you  an'  if 
you  air  goin'  to  school." 

For  a  while  more  they  rode  in  silence. 

"I  went  to  that  new  furrin  school  down  in  the 
mountains,"  yawned  the  boy,  "fer  'bout  two 
hours.  They're  gittin'  too  high-falutin'  to  suit 
me.  They  tried  to  git  me  to  wear  gal's  stockin's 
like  they  do  up  here  an'  I  jes'  laughed  at  'em. 
Then  they  tried  to  git  me  to  make  up  beds  an'  I 

109 


THE  HEART  OF  THE  HILLS 

to!'  'em  I  wasn't  goin'  to  wear  gal's  clothes  ner 
do  a  gal's  work,  an'  so  I  run  away." 

He  did  not  tell  his  reason  for  leaving  the  moun 
tains  altogether,  for  Mavis,  too,  was  a  girl,  and 
he  did  not  confide  in  women — not  yet. 

But  the  girl  was  woman  enough  to  remember 
that  the  last  time  she  had  seen  him  he  had  said 
that  he  was  going  to  come  for  her  some  day. 
There  was  no  sign  of  that  resolution,  however, 
in  either  his  manner  or  his  words  now,  and  for 
some  reason  she  was  rather  glad. 

"Every  boy  wears  clothes  like  that  up  here. 
They  calls  'em  knickerbockers." 

"  Huh ! "  grunted  Jason.     "  Hit  sounds  like  'em." 

"Air  ye  still  shootin'  at  that  ole  tree?" 

"Yep,  an'  I  kin  hit  the  belly-band  two  shots 
out  o'  three." 

Mavis  raised  her  dark  eyes  with  a  look  of  ap 
prehension,  for  she  knew  what  that  meant;  when 
he  could  hit  it  three  times  running  he  was  going 
after  the  man  who  had  killed  his  father.  But 
she  asked  no  more  questions,  for  while  the  boy 
could  not  forbear  to  boast  about  his  marksman 
ship,  further  information  was  beyond  her  sphere 
and  she  knew  it. 

When  they  came  to  the  lane  leading  to  her 
home,  Jason  turned  down  it  of  his  own  accord. 

"How'd  you  know  whar  we  live?" 

"I  was  here  this  mornin'  an'  I  seed  my  mammy. 
Yo'  daddy  wasn't  thar." 

Mavis  smiled  silently  to  herself;   he  had  found 

* 
no 


THE  HEART  OF  THE  HILLS 

out  thus  where  she  was  and  he  had  followed  her. 
At  the  little  stable  Jason  unsaddled  the  horses 
and  turned  both  out  in  the  yard  while  Mavis  went 
within,  and  Steve  Hawn  appeared  at  the  door  in 
his  underclothes  when  Jason  stepped  upon  the 
porch. 

"Hello,  Jason!" 

"Hello,  Steve!"  answered  the  boy,  but  they 
did  not  shake  hands,  not  because  of  the  hard  feel 
ing  between  them,  but  because  it  was  not  moun 
tain  custom. 

"Come  on  in  an'  lay  down." 

Mavis  had  gone  upstairs,  but  she  could  hear 
the  voices  below  her.  If  Mavis  had  been  hesi 
tant  about  asking  questions,  as  had  been  the 
boy's  mother  as  well,  Steve  was  not. 

"Whut'd  you  come  up  here  fer?" 

"Same  reason  as  you  once  left  the  mountains 
— I  got  inter  trouble." 

Steve  was  startled  and  he  frowned,  but  the  boy 
gazed  coolly  back  into  his  angry  eyes. 

"Whut  kind  o' trouble?" 

"Same  as  you — I  shot  a  feller,"  said  the  boy 
imperturbably. 

Little  Mavis  heard  a  groan  from  her  step 
mother,  an  angry  oath  from  her  father,  and  a 
curious  pang  of  horror  pierced  her. 

Silence  followed  below  and  the  girl  lay  awake 
and  trembling  in  her  bed. 

"Who  was  it?"  Steve  asked  at  last. 
in 


THE  HEART  OF  THE  HILLS 

"That's  my  business,"  said  little  Jason.  The 
silence  was  broken  no  more,  and  Mavis  lay  with 
new  thoughts  and  feelings  racking  her  brain  and 
her  heart.  Once  she  had  driven  to  town  with 
Marjorie  and  Gray,  and  a  man  had  come  to  the 
carriage  and  cheerily  shaken  hands  with  them 
both.  After  he  was  gone  Gray  looked  very  grave 
and  Marjorie  was  half  unconsciously  wiping  her 
right  hand  with  her  handkerchief. 

"He  killed  a  man,"  was  Marjorie's  horrified 
whisper  of  explanation,  and  now  if  they  should 
hear  what  she  had  heard  they  would  feel  the 
same  way  toward  her  own  cousin,  Jason  Hawn. 
She  had  never  had  such  a  feeling  in  the  moun 
tains,  but  she  had  it  now,  and  she  wondered 
whether  she  could  ever  be  quite  the  same  toward 
Jason  again. 


112 


XII 

/^"HRISTMAS  was  approaching  and  no  greater 
V^  wonder  had  ever  dawned  on  the  lives  of 
Mavis  and  Jason  than  the  way  these  people  in 
the  settlements  made  ready  for  it.  In  the  moun 
tains  many  had  never  heard  of  Christmas  and 
few  of  Christmas  stockings,  Santa  Claus,  and 
catching  Christmas  gifts — not  even  the  Hawns. 
But  Mavis  and  Jason  had  known  of  Christmas, 
had  celebrated  it  after  the  mountain  way,  and 
knew,  moreover,  what  the  Blue-grass  children  did 
not  know,  of  old  Christmas  as  well,  which  came 
just  twelve  days  after  the  new.  At  midnight  of 
old  Christmas,  so  the  old  folks  in  the  mountains 
said,  the  elders  bloomed  and  the  beasts  of  the 
field  and  the  cattle  in  the  barn  kneeled  lowing  and 
moaning,  and  once  the  two  children  had  slipped 
out  of  their  grandfather's  house  to  the  barn  and 
waited  to  watch  the  cattle  and  to  listen  to  them, 
but  they  suffered  from  the  cold,  and  when  they 
told  what  they  had  done  next  morning,  their 
grandfather  said  they  had  not  waited  long  enough, 
for  it  happened  just  at  midnight;  so  when  Mavis 
and  Jason  told  Marjorie  and  Gray  of  old  Christ 
mas  they  all  agreed  they  would  wait  up  this 
time  till  midnight  sure. 


THE  HEART  OF  THE  HILLS 

As  for  new  Christmas  in  the  hills,  the  women 
paid  little  attention  to  it,  and  to  the  men  it  meant 
"a  jug  of  liquor,  a  pistol  in  each  hand,  and  a  gal 
loping  nag."  Always,  indeed,  it  meant  drinking, 
and  target-shooting  to  see  "who  should  drink  and 
who  should  smell,"  for  the  man  who  made  a  bad 
shot  got  nothing  but  a  smell  from  the  jug  until 
he  had  redeemed  himself.  So,  Steve  Hawn  and 
Jason  got  ready  in  their  own  way  and  Mavis  and 
Martha  Hawn  accepted  their  rude  preparations 
as  a  matter  of  course. 

At  four  o'clock  in  the  afternoon  before  Christ 
mas  Eve  darkies  began  springing  around  the  cor 
ners  of  the  twin  houses,  and  from  closets  and  from 
behind  doors,  upon  the  white  folks  and  shouting 
"  Christmas  gift,"  for  to  the  one  who  said  the 
greeting  first  the  gift  came,  and  it  is  safe  to  say 
that  no  darky  in  the  Blue-grass  was  caught  that 
day.  And  the  Pendleton  clan  made  ready  to 
make  merry.  Kinspeople  gathered  at  the  old 
general's  ancient  home  and  at  the  twin  houses  on 
either  side  of  the  road.  Stockings  were  hung  up 
and  eager-eyed  children  went  to  restless  dreams 
of  their  holiday  king.  Steve  Hawn,  too,  had 
made  ready  with  boxes  of  cartridges  and  two  jugs 
of  red  liquor,  and  he  and  Jason  did  not  wait  for 
the  morrow  to  make  merry.  And  Uncle  Arch 
Hawn  happened  to  come  in  that  night,  but  he 
was  chary  of  the  cup,  and  he  frowned  with  dis 
pleasure  at  Jason,  who  was  taking  his  dram  with 

114 


THE  HEART  OF  THE  HILLS 

Steve  like  a  man,  and  he  showed  displeasure  be 
fore  he  rode  away  that  night  by  planting  a  thorn 
in  the  very  heart  of  Jason's  sensitive  soul.  When 
he  had  climbed  on  his  horse  he  turned  to  Jason. 

"Jason,"  he  drawled,  "you  can  come  back 
home  now  when  you  git  good  an'  ready.  Thar 
ain't  no  trouble  down  thar  just  now,  an*  Babe 
Honeycutt  ain't  lookin'  fer  you." 

Jason  gasped.  He  had  not  dared  to  ask  a  sin 
gle  question  about  the  one  thing  that  had  been 
torturing  his  curiosity  and  his  soul,  and  Arch  was 
bringing  it  out  before  them  all  as  though  it  were 
the  most  casual  and  unimportant  matter  in  the 
world.  Steve  and  his  wife  looked  amazed  and 
Mavis's  heart  quickened. 

"Babe  ain't  lookin'  fer  ye,"  Arch  drawled  on, 
"he's  laughin'  at  ye.  I  reckon  you  thought  you'd 
killed  him,  but  he  stumbled  over  a  root  an'  fell 
down  just  as  you  shot.  He  says  you  missed  him 
a  mile.  He  says  you  couldn't  hit  a  barn  in  plain 
daylight."  And  he  started  away. 

A  furious  oath  broke  from  Jason's  gaping 
mouth,  Steve  laughed,  and  if  the  boy's  pistol  had 
been  in  his  hand,  he  might  in  his  rage  have  shown 
Arch  as  he  rode  away  what  his  marksmanship 
could  be  even  in  the  dark,  but  even  with  his  uncle's 
laugh,  too,  coming  back  to  him  he  had  to  turn 
quickly  into  the  house  and  let  his  wrath  bite 
silently  inward. 

But  Mavis's  eyes  were  like  moist  stars. 


THE  HEART  OF  THE  HILLS 

"Oh,  Jasie,  Pm  so  glad,"  she  said,  but  he  only 
stared  and  turned  roughly  on  toward  the  jug  in 
the  corner. 

Before  day  next  morning  the  children  in  the 
big  houses  were  making  the  walls  ring  with 
laughter  and  shouts  of  joy.  Rockets  whizzed 
against  the  dawn,  fire-crackers  popped  unceas 
ingly,  and  now  and  then  a  loaded  anvil  boomed 
through  the  crackling  air,  but  there  was  no  happy 
awakening  for  little  Jason.  All  night  his  pride 
had  smarted  like  a  hornet  sting,  his  sleep  was  rest 
less  and  bitter  with  dreams  of  revenge,  and  the 
hot  current  in  his  veins  surged  back  and  forth  in 
the  old  channel  of  hate  for  the  slayer  of  his  father. 
Next  morning  his  blood-shot  eyes  opened  fierce 
and  sullen  and  he  started  the  day  with  a  visit  to 
the  whiskey  jug:  then  he  filled  his  belt  and  pock 
ets  with  cartridges. 

Early  in  the  afternoon  Marjorie  and  Gray  drove 
over  with  Christmas  greetings  and  little  presents. 
Mavis  went  out  to  meet  them,  and  when  Jason 
half-staggered  out  to  the  gate,  the  visitors  called 
to  him  merrily  and  became  instantly  grave  and 
still.  Mavis  flushed,  Marjorie  paled  with  horror 
and  disgust,  Gray  flamed  with  wonder  and  con 
tempt  and  quickly  whipped  up  his  horse — the 
mountain  boy  was  drunk. 

Jason  stared  after  them,  knowing  something 
had  suddenly  gone  wrong,  and  while  he  said  noth 
ing,  his  face  got  all  the  angrier,  he  rushed  in  for 

116 


THE  HEART  OF  THE  HILLS 

his  belt  and  pistol,  and  shaking  his  head  from  side 
to  side,  swaggered  out  to  the  stable  and  began 
saddling  his  old  mare.  Mavis  stood  in  the  door 
way  frightened  and  ashamed,  the  boy's  mother 
pleaded  with  him  to  come  into  the  house  and  lie 
down,  but  without  a  word  to  either  he  mounted 
with  difficulty  and  rode  down  the  road.  Steve 
Hawn,  who  had  been  silently  watching  him, 
laughed. 

"Let  him  alone — he  ain't  goin'  to  do  nothin'." 
Down  the  road  the  boy  rode  with  more  drunken 
swagger  than  his  years  in  the  wake  of  Marjorie 
and  Gray — unconsciously  in  the  wake  of  anything 
that  was  even  critical,  much  less  hostile,  and  in 
front  of  Gray's  house  he  pulled  up  and  gazed  long 
at  the  pillars  and  the  broad  open  door,  but  not  a 
soul  was  in  sight  and  he  paced  slowly  on.  A  few 
hundred  yards  down  the  turnpike  he  pulled  up 
again  and  long  and  critically  surveyed  a  wood 
land.  His  eye  caught  one  lone  tree  in  the  centre 
of  an  amphitheatrical  hollow  just  visible  over 
the  slope  of  a  hill.  The  look  of  the  tree  inter 
ested  him,  for  its  growth  was  strange,  and  he 
opened  the  gate  and  rode  across  the  thick  turf 
toward  it.  The  bark  was  smooth,  the  tree  was 
the  size  of  a  man's  body,  and  he  dismounted,  nod 
ding  his  head  up  and  down  with  much  satisfac 
tion.  Standing  close  to  the  tree,  he  pulled  out 
his  knife,  cut  out  a  square  of  the  bark  as  high 
as  the  first  button  of  his  coat  and  moving  around 

117 


THE  HEART  OF  THE  HILLS 

the  trunk  cut  out  several  more  squares  at  the 
same  level. 

"I  reckon,"  he  muttered,  "that's  whar  his  heart 
is  yit,  if  7  ain't  growed  too  much." 

Then  he  led  the  old  mare  to  higher  ground, 
came  back,  levelled  his  pistol,  and  moving  in  a 
circle  around  the  tree,  pulled  the  trigger  opposite 
each  square,  and  with  every  shot  he  grunted: 

"Can't  hit  a  barn,  can't  I,  by  Heck!" 

In  each  square  a  bullet  went  home.  Then  he 
reloaded  and  walked  rapidly  around  the  tree,  still 
firing. 

"An'  I  reckon  that's  a-makin'  some  nail-holes 
fer  his  galluses!" 

And  reloading  again  he  ran  around  the  tree, 
firing. 

"An'  mebbe  I  couldn't  still  git  him  if  I  was 
hikin'  fer  the  corner  of  a  house  an'  was  in  a  leetle 
grain  of  a  hurry  to  git  out  o'  his  range." 

Examining  results  at  a  close  range,  the  boy 
was  quite  satisfied — hardly  a  shot  had  struck  with 
out  a  band  three  inches  in  width  around  the  tree. 
There  was  one  further  test  that  he  had  not  yet 
made;  but  he  felt  sober  now  and  he  drew  a  bottle 
from  his  hip-pocket  and  pulled  at  it  hard  and  long. 
The  old  nag  grazing  above  him  had  paid  no  more 
attention  to  the  fusillade  than  to  the  buzzing  of 
flies.  He  mounted  her,  and  Gray,  riding  at  a  gal 
lop  to  make  out  what  the  unearthly  racket  going 
on  in  the  hollow  was,  saw  the  boy  going  at  full 

118 


THE  HEART  OF  THE  HILLS 

speed  in  a  circle  about  the  tree,  firing  and  yelling, 
and  as  Gray  himself  in  a  moment  more  would  be 
in  range,  he  shouted  a  warning.  Jason  stopped 
and  waited  with  belligerent  eyes  as  Gray  rode 
toward  him. 

"I  say,  Jason,"  Gray  smiled,  "I'm  afraid  my 
father  wouldn't  like  that — you've  pretty  near 
killed  that  tree." 

Jason  stared,  amazed- 

"Fust  time  I  ever  heerd  of  anybody  not  want- 
in'  a  feller  to  shoot  at  a  tree." 

Gray  saw  that  he  was  in  earnest  and  he  kept 
on,  smiling. 

"Well,  we  haven't  got  as  many  trees  here  as 
you  have  down  in  the  mountains,  and  up  here 
they're  more  valuable." 

The  last  words  were  unfortunate. 

"Looks  like  you  keer  a  heep  fer  yo*  trees," 
sneered  the  mountain  boy  with  a  wave  of  his  pis 
tol  toward  a  demolished  woodland;  "an'  if  our 
trees  air  so  wuthless,  whut  do  you  furriners  come 
down  thar  and  rob  us  of  'em  fer?" 

The  sneer,  the  tone,  and  the  bitter  emphasis 
on  the  one  ugly  word  turned  Gray's  face  quite 
red. 

"You  mustn't  say  anything  like  that  to  me," 
was  his  answer,  and  the  self-control  in  his  voice 
but  helped  make  the  mountain  boy  lose  his  at 
once  and  completely.  He  rode  straight  for  Gray 
and  pulled  in,  waving  his  pistol  crazily  before  the 

119 


THE  HEART  OF  THE  HILLS 

latter's  face,  and  Gray  could  actually  hear  the 
grinding  of  his  teeth. 

"Go  git  yo'  gun!    Git  yo'  gun!" 

Gray  turned  very  pale,  but  he  showed  no  fear. 

"I  don't  know  what's  the  matter  with  you," 
he  said  steadily,  "but  you  must  be  drunk." 

" Go  git  yo'  gun ! "  was  the  furious  answer.  "Go 
git  yo'  gun!" 

"Boys  don't  fight  with  guns  in  this  country, 
but—" 

"You're  a  d — d  coward,"  yelled  Jason. 

Gray's  fist  shot  through  the  mist  of  rage  that 
suddenly  blinded  him,  catching  Jason  on  the 
point  of  the  chin,  and  as  the  mountain  boy  spun 
half  around  in  his  saddle,  Gray  caught  the  pistol 
in  both  hands  and  in  the  struggle  both  rolled,  still 
clutching  the  weapon,  to  the  ground,  Gray  say 
ing  with  quiet  fury: 

"Drop  that  pistol  and  I'll  lick  hell  out  of 
you!" 

There  was  no  answer  but  the  twist  of  Jason's 
wrist,  and  the  bullet  went  harmlessly  upward. 
Before  he  could  pull  the  trigger  again,  the  sinewy 
fingers  of  a  man's  hand  closed  over  the  weapon 
and  pushed  it  flat  with  the  earth,  and  Jason's 
upturned  eyes  looked  into  the  grave  face  of  the 
school-master.  That  face  was  stern  and  shamed 
Jason  instantly.  The  two  boys  rose  to  their  feet, 
and  the  mountain  boy  turned  away  from  the 
school-master  and  saw  Marjorie  standing  ten 

120 


THE  HEART  OF  THE  HILLS 

yards  away  white  and  terror-stricken,  and  her 
eyes  when  he  met  them  blazed  at  him  with  a  light 
that  no  human  eye  had  ever  turned  on  him  before. 
The  boy  knew  anger,  rage,  hate,  revenge,  but  con 
tempt  was  new  to  him,  and  his  soul  was  filled  with 
sudden  shame  that  was  no  less  strange,  but  the 
spirit  in  him  was  undaunted,  and  like  a  chal 
lenged  young  buck  his  head  went  up  as  he  turned 
again  to  face  his  accuser. 

"Were  you  going  to  shoot  an  unarmed  boy?" 
asked  John  Burnham  gravely. 

"He  hit  me." 

"You  called  him  a  coward." 

"He  hit  me." 

"He  offered  to  fight  you  fist  and  skull." 

"He  had  the  same  chance  to  git  the  gun  that 
I  had." 

"He  wasn't  trying  to  get  it  in  order  to  shoot 
you." 

Jason  made  no  answer  and  the  school-master 
repeated : 

"He  offered  to  fight  you  fist  and  skull." 

"I  was  too  mad — but  I'll  fight  him  now." 

"Boys  don't  fight  in  the  presence  of  young 
ladies." 

Gray  spoke  up  and  in  his  tone  was  the  con 
tempt  that  was  in  Marjorie's  eyes,  and  it  made 
the  mountain  boy  writhe. 

"I  wouldn't  soil  my  hands  on  you — now." 

The  school-master  rebuked  Gray  with  a  gest- 
121 


THE  HEART  OF  THE  HILLS 

ure,  but  Jason  was  confused  and  sick  now  and 
he  held  out  his  hand  for  his  pistol. 

"I  better  be  goin'  now — this  ain't  no  place  fer 
me." 

The  school-master  gravely  handed  the  weapon 
to  him. 

"I'm  coming  over  to  have  a  talk  with  you, 
Jason,"  he  said. 

The  boy  made  no  answer.  He  climbed  on  his 
horse  slowly.  His  face  was  very  pale,  and  once 
only  he  swept  the  group  with  eyes  that  were 
badgered  but  no  longer  angry,  and  as  they  rested 
on  Marjorie,  there  was  a  pitiful,  lonely  some 
thing  in  them  that  instantly  melted  her  and 
almost  started  her  tears.  Then  he  rode  silently 
and  slowly  away. 


122' 


XIII 

O  LOWLY  the  lad  rode  westward,  for  the  reason 
that  he  was  not  yet  quite  ready  to  pass  be 
tween  those  two  big-pillared  houses  again,  and 
because  just  then  whatever  his  way — no  matter. 
His  anger  was  all  gone  now  and  his  brain  was 
clear,  but  he  was  bewildered.  Throughout  the 
day  he  had  done  nothing  that  he  thought  was 
wrong,  and  yet  throughout  the  day  he  had  done 
nothing  that  seemed  to  be  right.  This  land  was 
not  for  him — he  did  not  understand  the  ways  of 
it  and  the  people,  and  they  did  not  understand 
him.  Even  the  rock-pecker  had  gone  back  on 
him,  and  though  that  hurt  him  deeply,  the  lad 
loyally  knew  that  the  school-master  must  have 
his  own  good  reasons.  The  memory  of  Marjorie's 
look  still  hurt,  and  somehow  he  felt  that  even 
Mavis  was  vaguely  on  their  side  against  him,  and 
of  a  sudden  the  pang  of  loneliness  that  Marjorie 
saw  in  his  eyes  so  pierced  him  that  he  pulled  his 
old  nag  in  and  stood  motionless  in  the  middle  of 
the  road.  The  sky  was  overcast  and  the  air  was 
bitter  and  chill;  through  the  gray  curtain  that 
hung  to  the  rim  of  the  earth,  the  low  sun  swung 
like  a  cooling  ball  of  fire  and  under  it  the  gray 
fields  stretched  with  such  desolation  for  him  that 

123 


THE  HEART  OF  THE  HILLS 

he  dared  ride  no  farther  into  them.  And  then, 
as  the  lad  looked  across  the  level  stillness  that 
encircled  him,  the  mountains  loomed  suddenly 
from  it — big,  still,  peaceful,  beckoning — and  made 
him  faint  with  homesickness.  Those  mountains 
were  behind  him — his  mountains  and  his  home 
that  was  his  no  longer — but,  after  all,  any  home 
back  there  was  his,  and  that  thought  so  filled  his 
heart  with  a  rush  of  gladness  that  with  one  long 
breath  of  exultation  he  turned  in  his  saddle  to 
face  those  distant  unseen  hills,  and  the  old  mare, 
following  the  movement  of  his  body,  turned  too, 
as  though  she,  too,  suddenly  wanted  to  go  home. 
The  chill  air  actually  seemed  to  grow  warmer  as 
he  trotted  back,  the  fields  looked  less  desolate, 
and  then  across  them  he  saw  flashing  toward  him 
the  hostile  fire  of  a  scarlet  tam-o'-shanter.  He 
was  nearing  the  yard  gate  of  the  big  house  on  the 
right,  and  from  the  other  big  house  on  the  left 
the  spot  of  shaking  crimson  was  galloping  to 
ward  the  turnpike.  He  could  wait  until  Marjorie 
crossed  the  road  ahead  of  him,  or  he  could  gallop 
ahead  and  pass  before  she  could  reach  the  gate, 
but  his  sullen  pride  forbade  either  course,  and  so 
he  rode  straight  on,  and  his  dogged  eyes  met  hers 
as  she  swung  the  gate  to  and  turned  her  pony 
across  the  road.  Marjorie  flushed,  her  lips  half 
parted  to  speak,  and  Jason  sullenly  drew  in,  but 
as  she  said  nothing,  he  clucked  and  dug  his  heels 
viciously  into  the  old  mare's  sides. 

124 


THE  HEART  OF  THE  HILLS 

Then  the  little  girl  raised  one  hand  to  check  him 
and  spoke  hurriedly: 

"Jason,  we've  been  talking  about  you,  and  my 
Uncle  Bob  says  you  kept  me  from  getting  killed." 

Jason  stared. 

"And  the  school-teacher  says  we  don't  under 
stand  you — you  people  down  in  the  mountains — 
and  that  we  mustn't  blame  you  for — "  she  paused 
in  helpless  embarrassment,  for  still  the  mountain 
boy  stared. 

"You  know,"  she  went  on  finally,  "boys  here 
don't  do  things  that  you  boys  do  down  there " 

She  stopped  again,  the  tears  started  suddenly 
in  her  earnest  eyes,  and  a  miracle  happened  to 
little  Jason.  Something  quite  new  surged  within 
him,  his  own  eyes  swam  suddenly,  and  he  cleared 
his  throat  huskily. 

"I  hain't  a-goin'  to  bother  you  folks  no  more," 
he  said,  and  he  tried  to  be  surly,  but  couldn't. 
"I'm  a-goin'  away."  The  little  girl's  tears  ceased. 

"I'm  sorry,"  she  said.  "I  wish  you'd  stay 
here  and  go  to  school.  The  school-teacher  said 
he  wanted  you  to  do  that,  and  he  says  such  nice 
things  about  you,  and  so  does  my  Uncle  Bob,  and 
Gray  is  sorry,  and  he  says  he  is  coming  over  to 
see  you  to-morrow." 

"I'm  a-goin'  home,"  repeated  Jason  stub 
bornly. 

"Home?"  repeated  the  girl,  and  her  tone  did 
what  her  look  had  done  a  moment  before,  for  she 

125 


THE  HEART  OF  THE  HILLS 

knew  he  had  no  home,  and  again  the  lad  was 
filled  with  a  throbbing  uneasiness.  Her  eyes 
dropped  to  her  pony's  mane,  and  in  a  moment 
more  she  looked  up  with  shy  earnestness. 

"Will  you  do  something  for  me?" 

Again  Jason  started  and  of  its  own  accord  his 
tongue  spoke  words  that  to  his  own  ears  were 
very  strange. 

"Thar  hain't  nothin'  I  won't  do  fer  ye,"  he 
said,  and  his  sturdy  sincerity  curiously  disturbed 
Marjorie  in  turn,  so  that  her  flush  came  back, 
and  she  went  on  with  slow  hesitation  and  with 
her  eyes  again  fixed  on  her  pony's  neck. 

"I  want  you  to  promise  me  not — not  to  shoot 
anybody — unless  you  have  to  in  self-defence — 
and  never  to  take  another  drink  until — until  you 
see  me  again." 

She  could  not  have  bewildered  the  boy  more 
had  she  asked  him  never  to  go  barefoot  again, 
but  his  eyes  were  solemn  when  she  looked  up  and 
solemnly  he  nodded  assent. 

"I  give  ye  my  hand." 

The  words  were  not  literal,  but  merely  the  way 
the  mountaineer  phrases  the  giving  of  a  promise, 
but  the  little  girl  took  them  literally  and  she  rode 
up  to  him  with  slim  fingers  outstretched  and  a 
warm  friendly  smile  on  her  little  red  mouth. 
Awkwardly  the  lad  thrust  out  his  dirty,  strong 
little  hand. 

"Good-by,  Jason,"  she  said. 
126 


THE  HEART  OF  THE  HILLS 

"Good-by — "  he  faltered,  and,  still  smiling,  she 
finished  the  words  for  him. 

"Marjorie,"  she  said,  and  unsmilingly  he  re 
peated: 

"Marjorie." 

While  she  passed  through  the  gate  he  sat  still 
and  watched  her,  and  he  kept  on  watching  her 
as  she  galloped  toward  home,  twisting  in  his  sad 
dle  to  follow  her  course  around  the  winding  road. 
He  saw  a  negro  boy  come  out  to  the  stile  to  take 
her  pony,  and  there  Marjorie,  dismounting,  saw  in 
turn  the  lad  still  motionless  where  she  had  left 
him,  and  looking  after  her.  She  waved  her  whip 
to  him,  went  on  toward  the  house,  and  when 
she  reached  the  top  of  the  steps,  she  turned  and 
waved  to  him  again,  but  he  made  no  answering 
gesture,  and  only  when  the  front  door  closed  be 
hind  her,  did  the  boy  waken  from  his  trance  and 
jog  slowly  up  the  road.  Only  the  rim  of  the 
red  fire-ball  was  arched  over  the  horizon  behind 
him  now.  Winter  dusk  was  engulfing  the  fields 
and  through  it  belated  crows  were  scurrying 
silently  for  protecting  woods.  For  a  little  while 
Jason  rode  with  his  hands  folded  manwise  on  the 
pommel  of  his  saddle  and  with  manlike  emotions 
in  his  heart,  for,  while  the  mountains  still  beck 
oned,  this  land  had  somehow  grown  more  friendly 
and  there  was  a  curious  something  after  all  that 
he  would  leave  behind.  What  it  was  he  hardly 
knew;  but  a  pair  of  blue  eyes,  misty  with  mys- 

127 


THE  HEART  OF  THE  HILLS 

terious  tears,  had  sown  memories  in  his  confused 
brain  that  he  would  not  soon  lose.  He  did  not 
forget  the  contempt  that  had  blazed  from  those 
eyes,  but  he  wondered  now  at  the  reason  for  that 
contempt.  Was  there  something  that  ruled  this 
land — something  better  than  the  code  that  ruled 
his  hills?  He  had  remembered  every  word  the 
geologist  had  ever  said,  for  he  loved  the  man, 
but  it  had  remained  for  a  strange  girl — a  girl — 
to  revive  them,  to  give  them  actual  life  and  plant 
within  him  a  sudden  resolve  to  learn  for  himself 
what  it  all  meant,  and  to  practise  it,  if  he  found 
it  good.  A  cold  wind  sprang  up  now  and  cutting 
through  his  thin  clothes  drove  him  in  a  lope  to 
ward  his  mother's  home. 

Apparently  Mavis  was  watching  for  him  through 
the  window  of  the  cottage,  for  she  ran  out  on  the 
porch  to  meet  him,  but  something  in  the  boy's 
manner  checked  her,  and  she  neither  spoke  nor 
asked  a  question  while  the  boy  took  off  his  sad 
dle  and  tossed  it  on  the  steps.  Nor  did  Jason 
give  her  but  one  glance,  for  the  eagerness  of  her 
face  and  the  trust  and  tenderness  in  her  eyes 
were  an  unconscious  reproach  and  made  him  feel 
guilty  and  faithless,  so  that  he  changed  his  mind 
about  turning  the  old  mare  out  in  the  yard  and 
led  her  to  the  stable,  merely  to  get  away  from 
the  little  girl. 

Mavis  was  in  the  kitchen  when  he  entered  the 
house,  and  while  they  all  were  eating  supper,  the 

128 


THE  HEART  OF  THE  HILLS 

lad  could  feel  his  little  cousin's  eyes  on  him  all 
the  time — watching  and  wondering  and  troubled 
and  hurt.  And  when  the  four  were  seated  about 
the  fire,  he  did  not  look  at  her  when  he  announced 
that  he  was  going  back  home,  but  he  saw  her 
body  start  and  shrink.  His  step-father  yawned 
and  said  nothing,  and  his  mother  looked  on  into 
the  fire. 

"When  you  goin',  Jasie?"  she  asked  at  last. 

"Daylight,"  he  answered  shortly. 

There  was  a  long  silence. 

"Whut  you  goin'  to  do  down  thar?" 

The  lad  lifted  his  head  fiercely  and  looked  from 
the  woman  to  the  man  and  back  again. 

"I'm  a-goin'  to  git  that  land  back,"  he  snapped; 
and  as  there  was  no  question,  no  comment,  he 
settled  back  brooding  in  his  chair. 

"Hit  wasn't  right — hit  couldn't  'a'  been  right," 
he  muttered,  and  then  as  though  he  were  answer 
ing  his  mother's  unspoken  question: 

"I  don't  know  how  I'm  goin'  to  git  it  back, 
but  if  it  wasn't  right,  thar  must  be  some  way,  an' 
I'm  a-goin'  to  find  out  if  hit  takes  me  all  my  life." 

His  mother  was  still  silent,  though  she  had 
lifted  a  corner  of  her  apron  to  her  eyes,  and  the 
lad  rose  and  without  a  word  of  good-night  climbed 
the  stairs  to  go  to  bed.  Then  the  mother  spoke 
to  her  husband  angrily. 

"You  oughtn't  to  let  the  boy  put  all  the  blame 
on  me,  Steve — you  made  me  sell  that  land." 

129 


THE  HEART  OF  THE  HILLS 

Steve's  answer  was  another  yawn,  and  he  rose 
to  get  ready  for  bed,  and  Mavis,  too,  turned  in 
dignant  eyes  on  him,  for  she  had  heard  enough 
from  the  two  to  know  that  her  step-mother  spoke 
the  truth.  Her  father  opened  the  door  and  she 
heard  the  creak  of  his  heavy  footsteps  across  the 
freezing  porch.  Her  step-mother  went  into  the 
kitchen  and  Mavis  climbed  the  stairs  softly  and 
opened  Jason's  door. 

"Jasie!"  she  called. 

"Whut  you  want?" 

"Jasie,  take  me  back  home  with  ye,  won't  you  ? " 

A  rough  denial  was  on  his  lips,  but  her  voice 
broke  into  a  little  sob  and  the  boy  lay  for  a  mo 
ment  without  answering. 

"Whut  on  earth  would  you  do  down  thar, 
Mavis?" 

And  then  he  remembered  how  he  had  told  her 
that  he  would  come  for  her  some  day,  and  he 
remembered  the  Hawn  boast  that  a  Hawn's  word 
was  as  good  as  his  bond  and  he  added  kindly: 
"Wait  till  mornin',  Mavis.  I'll  take  ye  if  ye 
want  to  go." 

The  door  closed  instantly  and  she  was  gone. 
When  the  lad  came  down  before  day  next  morn 
ing  Mavis  had  finished  tying  a  few  things  in  a 
bundle  and  was  pushing  it  out  of  sight  under  a 
bed,  and  Jason  knew  what  that  meant. 

"You  hain't  told 'em?" 

Mavis  shook  her  head. 
130 


THE  HEART  OF  THE  HILLS 

"Mebbe  yo'  pap  won't  let  ye." 

"He  ain't  hyeh,"  said  the  little  girl. 

"Wharishe?" 

"I  don't  know." 

"Mavis,"  said  the  boy  seriously,  "I'm  a  boy 
an'  hit  don't  make  no  difference  whar  I  go,  but 
you're  a  gal  an'  hit  looks  like  you  ought  to  stay 
with  yo'  daddy." 

The  girl  shook  her  head  stubbornly,  but  he 
paid  no  attention. 

"I  tell  ye,  I'm  a-goin'  back  to  that  new-fangled 
school  when  I  git  to  grandpap's,  an'  whut'll  you  do  ? " 

"I'll  go  with  ye." 

"I've  thought  o'  that,"  said  the  boy  patiently, 
"but  they  mought  not  have  room  fer  neither  one 
of  us — an'  I  can  take  keer  o'  myself  anywhar." 

"Yes,"  said  the  little  girl  proudly,  "an'  I'll 
trust  ye  to  take  keer  o'  me — anywhar." 

The  boy  looked  at  her  long  and  hard,  but  there 
was  no  feminine  cunning  in  her  eyes — nothing 
but  simple  trust — and  his  silence  was  a  despair 
ing  assent.  From  the  kitchen  his  mother  called 
them  to  breakfast. 

"Whar's  Steve?"  asked  the  boy. 

The  mother  gave  the  same  answer  as  had 
Mavis,  but  she  looked  anxious  and  worried. 

"Mavis  is  a-goin'  back  to  the  mountains  with 
me,"  said  the  boy,  and  the  girl  looked  up  in  de 
fiant  expectation,  but  the  mother  did  not  even 
look  around  from  the  stove. 


THE  HEART  OF  THE  HILLS 

"Mebbe  yo'  pap  won't  let  ye,"  she  said  quietly. 

"How's  he  goin'  to  help  hisself,"  asked  the 
girl,  "when  he  ain't  hyeh?" 

"He'll  blame  me  fer  it,  but  I  ain't  a-blamin' 
you." 

The  words  surprised  and  puzzled  both  and 
touched  both  with  sympathy  and  a  little  shame. 
The  mother  looked  at  her  son,  opened  her  lips 
again,  but  closed  them  with  a  glance  at  Mavis 
that  made  her  go  out  and  leave  them  alone. 

"Jasie,"  she  said  then,  "I  reckon  when  Babe 
was  a-playin'  'possum  in  the  bushes  that  day,  he 
could  'a'  shot  ye  when  you  run  down  the  hill." 

She  took  his  silence  for  assent  and  went  on: 

"That  shows  he  don't  hold  no  grudge  agin  you 
fer  shootin'  at  him." 

Still  Jason  was  silent,  and  a  line  of  stern  justice 
straightened  the  woman's  lips. 

"I  hain't  got  no  right  to  say  a  word,  just  be 
cause  Babe  air  my  own  brother.  Mebbe  Babe 
knows  who  the  man  was,  but  I  don't  believe  Babe 
done  it.  Hit  hain't  enough  that  he  was  jes'  seed 
a-comin'  outen  the  bushes,  an'  afore  you  go 
a-layin'  fer  Babe,  all  I  axe  ye  is  to  make  plumb 
dead  shore." 

It  was  a  strange  new  note  to  come  from  his 
mother's  voice,  and  it  kept  the  boy  still  silent 
from  helplessness  and  shame.  She  had  spoken 
calmly,  but  now  there  was  a  little  break  in  her 
voice. 

132 


THE  HEART  OF  THE  HILLS 

"I  want  ye  to  go  back,  an'  I'd  go  blind  fer  the 
rest  o'  my  days  if  that  land  was  yours  an'  was 
a-waitin'  down  thar  fer  ye." 

From  the  next  room  came  the  sound  of  Mavis's 
restless  feet,  and  the  boy  rose. 

"I  hain't  a-goin'  to  lay  fer  Babe,  mammy," 
he  said  huskily;  "I  hain't  a-goin'  to  lay  fer  nobody 
— now.  An'  don't  you  worry  no  more  about  that 
land." 

Half  an  hour  later,  just  when  day  was  breaking, 
Mavis  sat  behind  Jason  with  her  bundle  in  her 
lap,  and  the  mother  looked  up  at  them. 

"I  wish  I  was  a-goin'  with  ye,"  she  said. 

And  when  they  had  passed  out  of  sight  down  the 
lane,  she  turned  back  into  the  house — weeping. 


133 


XIV 

TITTLE  Mavis  did  not  reach  the  hills.  At 
sunrise  a  few  miles  down  the  road,  the  two 
met  Steve  Hawn  on  a  borrowed  horse,  his  pistol 
buckled  around  him  and  his  face  pale  and  sleep 
less. 

"Whar  you  two  goin'?"  he  asked  roughly. 

"Home,"  was  Jason's  short  answer,  and  he  felt 
Mavis's  arm  about  his  waist  begin  to  tremble. 

"Git  off,  Mavis,  an'  git  up  hyeh  behind  me. 
Yo'  home's  with  me." 

Jason  valiantly  reached  for  his  gun,  but  Mavis 
caught  his  hand  and,  holding  it,  slipped  to  the 
ground. 

"Don't,  Jasie— I'll  come,  pap,  I'll  come." 
Whereat  Steve  laughed  and  Jason,  raging,  saw 
her  ride  away  behind  her  step-father,  clutching 
him  about  the  waist  with  one  arm  and  with  the 
other  bent  over  her  eyes  to  shield  her  tears. 

A  few  miles  farther,  Jason  came  on  the  smok 
ing,  charred  remains  of  a  toll-gate,  and  he  paused 
a  moment  wondering  if  Steve  might  not  have  had 
a  hand  in  that,  and  rode  on  toward  the  hills. 
Two  hours  later  the  school-master's  horse  shied 
from  those  black  ruins,  and  John  Burnham  kept 

134 


THE  HEART  OF  THE  HILLS 

on  toward  school  with  a  troubled  face.  To  him 
the  ruins  meant  the  first  touch  of  the  writhing 
tentacles  of  the  modern  trust  and  the  Blue-grass 
Kentuckian's  characteristic  way  of  throwing  them 
off,  for  turnpikes  of  white  limestone,  like  the  one 
he  travelled,  thread  the  Blue-grass  country  like 
strands  of  a  spider's  web.  The  spinning  of  them 
started  away  back  in  the  beginning  of  the  last 
century.  That  far  back,  the  strand  he  followed 
pierced  the  heart  of  the  region  from  its  chief 
town  to  the  Ohio  and  was  graded  for  steam- 
wagons  that  were  expected  to  roll  out  from  the 
land  of  dreams.  Every  few  miles  on  each  of 
these  roads  sat  a  little  house,  its  porch  touching 
the  very  edge  of  the  turnpike,  and  there  a  long 
pole,  heavily  weighted  at  one  end  and  pulled 
down  and  tied  fast  to  the  porch,  blocked  the  way. 
Every  traveller,  except  he  was  on  foot,  every 
drover  of  cattle,  sheep,  hogs,  or  mules,  must  pay 
his  toll  before  the  pole  was  lifted  and  he  could 
go  on  his  way.  And  Burnham  could  remember 
the  big  fat  man  who  once  a  month,  in  a  broad, 
low  buggy,  drawn  by  two  swift  black  horses, 
would  travel  hither  and  thither,  stopping  at  each 
little  house  to  gather  in  the  deposits  of  small  coins. 
As  time  went  on,  this  man  and  a  few  friends  be 
gan  to  gather  in  as  well  certain  bits  of  scattered 
paper  that  put  the  turnpike  webs  like  reins  into 
a  few  pairs  of  hands,  with  the  natural,  inevitable 
result :  fewer  men  had  personal  need  of  good  roads, 

135 


THE  HEART  OF  THE  HILLS 

the  man  who  parted  with  his  bit  of  paper  lost 
his  power  of  protest,  and  while  the  traveller  paid 
the  small  toll,  the  path  that  he  travelled  got 
steadily  worse.  A  mild  effort  to  arouse  a  senti 
ment  for  county  control  was  made,  and  this  fail 
ing,  the  Kentuckian  had  straightway  gone  for 
firebrand  and  gun.  The  dormant  spirit  of  Ku- 
Klux  awakened,  the  night-rider  was  born  again, 
and  one  by  one  the  toll-gates  were  going  up  in 
flame  and  settling  back  in  ashes  to  the  mother 
earth.  The  school-master  smiled  when  he  thought 
of  the  result  of  one  investigation  in  the  county 
by  law.  A  sturdy  farmer  was  haled  before  the 
grand  jury. 

"Do  you  know  the  perpetrators  of  the  unlaw 
ful  burning  of  the  toll-gate  on  the  Cave  Hill  Pike?" 
asked  the  august  body.  The  farmer  ran  his  fear 
less  eyes  down  the  twelve  of  his  peers  and  slowly 
walked  the  length  of  them,  pointing  his  finger  at 
this  juror  and  that. 

"Yes,  I  do,"  he  said  quietly,  "and  so  do  you 
— and  you  and  you.  Your  son  was  in  it — and 
yours — and  mine;  and  you  were  in  it  yourself. 
Now,  what  are  you  going  to  do  about  it?"  And, 
unrebuked  and  unrestrained,  he  turned  and 
walked  out  of  the  room,  leaving  the  august  body, 
startled,  grimly  smiling  and  reduced  to  a  helpless 
pulp  of  inactivity. 

That  morning  Mavis  was  late  to  school,  and 
the  school-master  and  Gray  and  Marjorie  all  saw 

136 


THE  HEART  OF  THE  HILLS 

that  she  had  been  weeping.  Only  Marjorie  sus 
pected  the  cause,  but  at  little  recess  John  Burn- 
ham  went  to  her  to  ask  where  Jason  was,  and 
Gray  was  behind  him  with  the  same  question  on 
his  lips.  And  when  Mavis  burst  into  tears,  Mar 
jorie  answered  for  her  and  sat  down  beside  her 
and  put  her  arms  around  the  mountain  girl.  After 
school  she  even  took  Mavis  home  behind  her,  and 
Gray  rode  along  with  them  on  his  pony.  Steve 
Hawn  was  sitting  on  his  little  porch  smoking  when 
they  rode  up,  and  he  came  down  and  hospitably 
asked  them  to  "light  and  hitch  their  beastes," 
and  the  black-haired  step-mother  called  from  the 
doorway  for  them  to  "come  in  an'  rest  a  spell." 
Gray  and  Marjorie  concealed  with  some  diffi 
culty  their  amusement  at  such  queer  phrases  of 
welcome,  and  a  wonder  at  the  democratic  ease 
of  the  two  and  their  utter  unconsciousness  of  any 
social  difference  between  the  lords  and  ladies  of 
the  Blue-grass  and  poor  people  from  the  moun 
tains,  for  the  other  tobacco  tenants  were  not  like 
these.  And  there  was  no  surprise  on  the  part  of 
the  man,  the  woman,  or  the  little  girl  when  a  sud 
den  warm  impulse  to  relieve  loneliness  led  Mar 
jorie  to  ask  Mavis  to  go  to  her  own  home  and 
stay  all  night  with  her. 

"Course,"  said  the  woman. 

"Go  right  along,  Mavis,"  said  the  man,  and 
Marjorie  turned  to  Gray. 

"You  can  carry  her  things,"  she  said,  and  she 
137 


THE  HEART  OF  THE  HILLS 

turned  to  Mavis  and  met  puzzled,  unabashed  eyes. 

"Whut  things?"  asked  little  Mavis,  whereat 
Marjorie  blushed,  looked  quickly  to  Gray,  whose 
face  was  courteously  unsmiling,  and  started  her 
pony  abruptly. 

It  was  a  wonderful  night  for  the  mountaineer 
girl  in  the  big-pillared  house  on  the  hill.  When 
they  got  home,  Marjorie  drove  her  in  a  little  pony- 
cart  over  the  big  farm,  while  Gray  trotted  along 
side — through  pastures  filled  with  cattle  so  fat 
they  could  hardly  walk,  past  big  barns  bursting 
with  hay  and  tobacco  and  stables  full  of  slender, 
beautiful  horses.  Even  the  pigs  had  little  red 
houses  of  refuge  from  the  weather  and  flocks  of 
sheep  dotted  the  hill-side  like  unmelted  patches 
of  snow.  The  mountain  girl's  eyes  grew  big  with 
wonder  when  she  entered  the  great  hall  with  its 
lofty  ceiling,  its  winding  stairway,  and  its  polished 
floor,  so  slippery  that  she  came  near  falling  down, 
and  they  stayed  big  when  she  saw  the  rows  of 
books,  the  pictures  on  the  walls,  the  padded 
couches  and  chairs,  the  noiseless  carpets,  the  pol 
ished  andirons  that  gleamed  like  gold  before  the 
blazing  fires,  and  when  she  glimpsed  through  an 
open  door  the  long  dining-table  with  its  glisten 
ing  glass  and  silver.  When  she  mounted  that 
winding  stairway  and  entered  Marjorie's  room 
she  was  stricken  dumb  by  its  pink  curtains,  pink 
wall-paper,  and  gleaming  brass  bedstead  with 
pink  coverlid  and  pink  pillow-facings.  And  she 

138 


THE  HEART  OF  THE  HILLS 


f 


nearly  gasped  when  Marjorie  led  her  on  into  an 
other  room  of  blue. 

"This  is  your  room,"  she  said  smiling,  "right 
next  to  mine.  I'll  be  back  in  a  minute/' 

Mavis  stood  a  moment  in  the  middle  of  the 
room  when  she  was  alone,  hardly  daring  to  sit 
down.  A  coal  fire  crackled  behind  a  wire  screen 
— coal  from  her  mountains.  A  door  opened  into 
a  queer  little  room,  glistening  white,  and  she 
peeped,  wondering,  within. 

"There's  the  bath-room,"  Marjorie  had  said. 
She  had  not  known  what  was  meant,  and  she  did 
not  now,  looking  at  the  long  white  tub  and  the 
white  tiling  floor  and  walls  until  she  saw  the 
multitudinous  towels,  and  she  marvelled  at  the 
new  mystery.  She  went  back  and  walked  to  the 
window  and  looked  out  on  the  endless  rolling 
winter  fields  over  which  she  had  driven  that  after 
noon — all,  Gray  had  told  her,  to  be  Marjorie's 
some  day,  just  as  all  across  the  turnpike,  Marjorie 
had  told  her,  was  some  day  to  be  Gray's.  She 
thought  of  herself  and  of  Jason,  and  her  tears 
started,  not  for  herself,  but  for  him.  Then  she 
heard  Marjorie  coming  in  and  she  brushed  her 
eyes  swiftly. 

"  Whar  can  I  git  some  water  to  wash  ? "  she  asked. 

Marjorie  laughed  delightedly  and  led  her  back 
to  that  wonderful  little  white  room,  turned  a 
gleaming  silver  star,  and  the  water  spurted  joy 
ously  into  the  bowl. 

139 


THE  HEART  OF  THE  HILLS 


"Well,  I  do  declare!" 

Soon  they  went  down  to  supper,  and  Mavis 
put  out  a  shy  hand  to  Marjorie's  mother,  a  kind- 
eyed,  smiling  woman  in  black.  And  Gray,  too, 
was  there,  watching  the  little  mountain  girl  and 
smiling  encouragement  whenever  he  met  her  eyes. 
And  Mavis  passed  muster  well,  for  the  moun 
taineer's  sensitiveness  makes  him  wary  of  his 
manners  when  he  is  among  strange  people,  and  he 
will  go  hungry  rather  than  be  guilty  unknowingly 
of  a  possible  breach.  Marjorie's  mother  was  much 
interested  and  pleased  with  Mavis,  and  she  made 
up  her  mind  at  once  to  discuss  with  her  daughter 
how  they  could  best  help  along  the  little  stran 
ger.  After  supper  Marjorie  played  on  the  piano, 
and  she  and  Gray  sang  duets,  but  the  music  was 
foreign  to  Mavis,  and  she  did  not  like  it  very 
much.  When  the  two  went  upstairs,  there  was  a 
dainty  long  garment  spread  on  Mavis's  bed,  which 
Mavis  fingered  carefully  with  much  interest  and 
much  curiosity  until  she  recalled  suddenly  what 
Marjorie  had  said  about  Gray  carrying  her 
"things."  This  was  one  of  these  things,  and 
Mavis  put  it  on  wondering  what  the  other  things 
might  be.  Then  she  saw  that  a  silver-backed 
comb  and  brush  had  appeared  on  the  bureau 
along  with  a  tiny  pair  of  scissors  and  a  little  ivory 
stick,  the  use  of  which  she  could  not  make  out 
at  all.  But  she  asked  no  questions,  and  when 
Marjorie  came  in  with  a  new  toothbrush  and  a 

140 


THE  HEART  OF  THE  HILLS 

little  tin  box  and  put  them  in  the  bath-room, 
Mavis  still  showed  no  surprise,  but  ran  her  eyes 
down  the  nightgown  with  its  dainty  ribbons. 

"Ain't  it  purty?"  she  said,  and  her  voice  and 
her  eyes  spoke  all  her  thanks  with  such  sincerity 
and  pathos  that  Marjorie  was  touched.  Then 
they  sat  down  in  front  of  the  fire — a  pair  of  slim 
brown  feet  that  had  been  bruised  by  many  a 
stone  and  pierced  by  many  a  thorn  stretched  out 
to  a  warm  blaze  side  by  side  with  a  pair  of  white 
slim  ones  that  had  been  tenderly  guarded  against 
both  since  the  first  day  they  had  touched  the 
earth,  and  a  golden  head  that  had  never  been 
without  the  caress  of  a  tender  hand  and  a  tousled 
dark  one  that  had  been  bared  to  sun  and  wind 
and  storm — close  together  for  a  long  time.  Un 
consciously  Marjorie  had  Mavis  tell  her  much 
about  Jason,  just  as  Mavis  without  knowing  it 
had  Marjorie  tell  her  much  about  Gray.  Mavis 
got  the  first  good-night  kiss  of  her  life  that  night, 
and  she  went  to  bed  thinking  of  the  Blue-grass 
boy's  watchful  eyes,  little  courtesies,  and  his  sym 
pathetic  smile,  just  as  Gray,  riding  home,  was 
thinking  of  the  dark,  shy  little  mountain  girl  with 
a  warm  glow  of  protection  about  his  heart,  and 
Marjorie  fell  asleep  dreaming  of  the  mountain 
boy  who,  under  her  promise,  had  gone  back  home 
less  to  his  hills.  In  them  perhaps  it  was  the  call 
of  the  woods  and  wilds  that  had  led  their  pioneer 
forefathers  long,  long  ago  into  woods  and  wilds, 

141 


THE  HEART  OF  THE  HILLS 


or  perhaps,  after  all,  it  was  only  the  little  blind 
god  shooting  arrows  at  them  in  the  dark. 

At  least  with  little  Jason  one  arrow  had  gone 
home.  At  the  forks  of  the  road  beyond  the  coun 
ty-seat  he  turned  not  toward  his  grandfather's, 
but  up  the  spur  and  over  the  mountain.  And 
St.  Hilda,  sitting  on  her  porch,  saw  him  coming 
again.  His  face  looked  beaten  but  determined, 
and  he  strode  toward  her  as  straight  and  sturdy 
as  ever. 

"I've  come  back  to  stay  with  ye,"  he  said. 

Again  she  started  to  make  denial,  but  he  shook 
his  head.  "Tain't  no  use — I'm  a-goin'  to  stay 
this  time,"  he  said,  and  he  walked  up  the  steps, 
pulling  two  or  three  dirty  bills  from  his  pocket 
with  one  hand  and  unbuckling  his  pistol  belt  with 
the  other. 

"Me  an*  my  nag'll  work  fer  ye  an'  I'll  wear 
gal's  stockin's  an'  a  poke-bonnet  an'  do  a  gal's 
work,  if  you'll  jus'  1'arn  me  whut  I  want  to  know." 


142 


XV 


/T^HE  funeral  of  old  Hiram  Sudduth,  Mar- 
jorie's  grandfather  on  her  mother's  side,  was 
over.  The  old  man  had  been  laid  to  rest,  by  the 
side  of  his  father  and  his  pioneer  grandfather,  in 
the  cedar-filled  bury  ing-ground  on  the  broad  farm 
that  had  belonged  in  turn  to  the  three  in  an  ad 
joining  county  that  was  the  last  stronghold  of 
conservatism  in  the  Blue-grass  world,  and  John 
Burnham,  the  school-master,  who  had  spent  the 
night  with  an  old  friend  after  the  funeral,  was 
driving  home.  Not  that  there  had  not  been  many 
changes  in  that  stronghold,  too,  but  they  were 
fewer  than  elsewhere  and  unmodern,  and  what 
ever  profit  was  possible  through  these  changes 
was  reaped  by  men  of  the  land  like  old  Hiram 
and  not  by  strangers.  For  the  war  there,  as  else 
where,  had  done  its  deadly  work.  With  the  negro 
quarters  empty,  the  elders  were  too  old  to  change 
their  ways,  the  young  would  not  accept  the  new 
and  hard  conditions,  and  as  mortgages  slowly  ate 
up  farm  after  farm,  quiet,  thrifty,  hard-working 
old  Hiram  would  gradually  take  them  in,  deplet 
ing  the  old  Stonewall  neighborhood  of  its  families 
one  by  one,  and  sending  them  West,  never  to 
come  back.  The  old  man,  John  Burnham  knew, 

H3 


THE  HEART  OF  THE  HILLS 

had  bitterly  opposed  the  marriage  of  his  daughter 
with  a  "spendthrift  Pendleton,"  and  he  wondered 
if  now  the  old  man's  will  would  show  that  he  had 
carried  that  opposition  to  the  grave.  It  was  more 
than  likely,  for  Marjorie's  father  had  gone  his 
careless,  generous,  magnificent  way  in  spite  of  the 
curb  that  the  inherited  thrift  and  inherited  pas 
sion  for  land  in  his  Sudduth  wife  had  put  upon 
him.  Old  Hiram  knew,  moreover,  the  parental 
purpose  where  Gray  and  Marjorie  were  concerned, 
and  it  was  not  likely  that  he  would  thwart  one 
generation  and  tempt  the  succeeding  one  to  go 
on  in  its  reckless  way.  Right  now  Burnham 
knew  that  trouble  was  imminent  for  Gray's 
father,  and  he  began  to  wonder  what  for  him  and 
his  kind  the  end  would  be,  for  no  change  that 
came  or  was  coming  to  his  beloved  land  ever  es 
caped  his  watchful  eye.  From  the  crest  of  the 
Cumberland  to  the  yellow  flood  of  the  Ohio  he 
knew  that  land,  and  he  loved  every  acre  of  it, 
whether  blue-grass,  bear-grass,  peavine,  or  penny 
royal,  and  he  knew  its  history  from  Daniel  Boone 
to  the  little  Boones  who  still  trapped  skunk,  mink, 
and  muskrat,  and  shot  squirrels  in  the  hills  with 
the  same  old-fashioned  rifle,  and  he  loved  its 
people — his  people — whether  they  wore  silk  and 
slippers,  homespun  and  brogans,  patent  leathers 
and  broadcloth,  or  cowhide  boots  and  jeans. 
And  now  serious  troubles  were  threatening  them. 
A  new  man  with  a  new  political  method  had  en- 

144 


THE  HEART  OF  THE  HILLS 

tered  the  arena  and  had  boldly  offered  an  election 
bill  which,  if  passed  and  enforced,  would  create 
a  State-wide  revolution,  for  it  would  rob  the  peo 
ple  of  local  self-government  and  centralize  power 
in  the  hands  of  a  triumvirate  that  would  be  the 
creature  of  his  government  and,  under  the  control 
of  no  court  or  jury,  the  supreme  master  of  the 
State  and  absolute  master  of  the  people.  And 
Burnham  knew  that,  in  such  a  crisis,  ties  of  blood, 
kinship,  friendship,  religion,  business,  would  count 
no  more  in  the  Blue-grass  than  they  did  during 
the  Civil  War,  and  that  now,  as  then,  father  and 
son,  brother  and  brother,  neighbor  and  neighbor, 
would  each  think  and  act  for  himself,  though  the 
house  divided  against  itself  should  fall  to  rise  no 
more.  Nor  was  that  all.  In  the  farmer's  fight 
against  the  staggering  crop  of  mortgages  that  had 
slowly  sprung  up  from  the  long-ago  sowing  of 
the  dragon's  teeth  Burnham  saw  with  a  heavy 
heart  the  telling  signs  of  the  land's  slow  descent 
from  the  strength  of  hemp  to  the  weakness  of 
tobacco — the  ravage  of  the  woodlands,  the  in 
coming  of  the  tenant  from  the  river-valley  coun 
ties,  the  scars  on  the  beautiful  face  of  the  land, 
the  scars  on  the  body  social  of  the  region — and 
now  he  knew  another  deadlier  crisis,  both  social 
and  economic,  must  some  day  come. 

In  the  toll-gate  war,  long  over,  the  law  had 
been  merely  a  little  too  awkward  and  slow. 
County  sentiment  had  been  a  little  lazy,  but  it 

H5 


THE  HEART  OF  THE  HILLS 

had  got  active  in  a  hurry,  and  several  gentlemen, 
among  them  Gray's  father,  had  ridden  into  town 
and  deposited  bits  of  gilt-scrolled  paper  to  be 
appraised  and  taken  over  by  the  county,  and  the 
whole  problem  had  been  quickly  solved,  but  the 
school-master,  looking  back,  could  not  help  won 
dering  what  lawless  seeds  the  firebrand  had  then 
sowed  in  the  hearts  of  the  people  and  what  weeds 
might  not  spring  from  those  seeds  even  now;  for 
the  trust  element  of  the  toll-gate  troubles  had 
been  accidental,  unintentional,  even  unconscious, 
unrecognized;  and  now  the  real  spirit  of  a  real 
trust  from  the  outside  world  was  making  itself 
felt.  Courteous  emissaries  were  smilingly  fixing 
their  own  price  on  the  Kentuckian's  own  tobacco 
and  assuring  him  that  he  not  only  could  not  get 
a  higher  price  elsewhere,  but  that  if  he  declined 
he  would  be  offered  less  next  time,  which  he  would 
have  to  accept  or  he  could  not  sell  at  all.  And 
the  incredulous,  fiery,  independent  Kentuckian 
found  his  crop  mysteriously  shadowed  on  its  way 
to  the  big  town  markets,  marked  with  an  invisible 
"noli  me  tangere"  except  at  the  price  that  he  was 
offered  at  home.  And  so  he  had  to  sell  it  in  a 
rage  at  just  that  price,  and  he  went  home  puzzled 
and  fighting-mad.  If,  then,  the  Blue-grass  peo 
ple  had  handled  with  the  firebrand  corporate 
aggrandizement  of  toll-gate  owners  who  were 
neighbors  and  friends,  how  would  they  treat  med 
dlesome  interference  from  strangers  ?  Already  one 

146 


THE  HEART  OF  THE  HILLS 

courteous  emissary  in  one  county  had  fled  the 
people's  wrath  on  a  swift  thoroughbred,  and  Burn- 
ham  smiled  sadly  to  himself  and  shook  his  head. 

Rounding  a  hill  a  few  minutes  later,  the  school 
master  saw  far  ahead  the  ancestral  home  of  the 
Pendletons,  where  the  stern  old  head  of  the  house, 
but  lately  passed  in  his  ninetieth  year,  had  wielded 
patriarchal  power.     The  old  general  had  entered 
the  Mexican  War  a  lieutenant  and  come  out  a 
colonel,  and  from  the  Civil  War  he  had  emerged 
a  major-general.     He  had  two  sons — twins — and 
for  the  twin  brothers  he  had  built  twin  houses  on 
either  side  of  the  turnpike  and  had  given  each 
five  hundred   acres  of  land.     And   these  houses 
had  literally  grown  from  the  soil,  for  the  soil  had 
given  every  stick  of  timber  in  them  and  every 
brick  and  stone.     The  twin  brothers  had  married 
sisters,  and  thus  as  the  results  of  those  unions 
Gray's  father  and  Marjorie's  father  were  double 
cousins,  and  like  twin  brothers  had  been  reared, 
and  the  school-master  marvelled  afresh  when  he 
thought  of  the  cleavage  made  in  that  one  family 
by  the  terrible  Civil  War.     For  the  old  general 
carried  but  one  of  his  twin  sons  into  the  Con 
federacy  with  him — the  other  went  with  the  Union 
— and  his  grandsons,  the  double  cousins,  who  were 
just  entering  college,  went  not  only  against  each 
other,  but  each  against  his  own  father,  and  there 
was  the  extraordinary  fact  of  three  generations 
serving  in  the  same  war,  cousin  against  cousin, 

147 


THE  HEART  OF  THE  HILLS 

brother  against  brother,  and  father  against  son. 
The  twin  brothers  each  gave  up  his  life  for  his 
cause.  After  the  war  the  cousins  lived  on  like 
brothers,  married  late,  and,  naturally,  each  was 
called  uncle  by  the  other's  only  child.  In  time 
the  two  took  their  fathers'  places  in  the  heart  of 
the  old  general,  and  in  the  twin  houses  on  the 
hills.  Gray's  father  had  married  an  aristocrat, 
who  survived  the  birth  of  Gray  only  a  few  years, 
and  Marjorie's  father  died  of  an  old  wound  but 
a  year  or  two  after  she  was  born.  And  so  the 
balked  affection  of  the  old  man  dropped  down 
through  three  generations  to  centre  on  Marjorie, 
and  his  passionate  family  pride  to  concentrate 
on  Gray. 

Now  the  old  Roman  was  gone,  and  John  Burn- 
ham  looked  with  sad  eyes  at  the  last  stronghold 
of  him  and  his  kind — the  rambling  old  house 
stuccoed  with  aged  brown  and  covered  with  an 
cient  vines,  knotted  and  gnarled  like  an  old  man's 
hand;  the  walls  three  feet  thick  and -built  as  for 
a  fort,  as  was  doubtless  the  intent  in  pioneer  days; 
the  big  yard  of  unmown  blue-grass  and  filled  with 
cedars  and  forest  trees;  the  numerous  servants' 
quarters,  the  spacious  hen-house,  the  stables  with 
gables  and  long  sloping  roofs  and  the  arched  gate 
way  to  them  for  the  thoroughbreds,  under  which 
no  hybrid  mule  or  lowly  work-horse  was  ever 
allowed  to  pass;  the  spring-house  with  its  drip 
ping  green  walls,  the  long-silent  blacksmith-shop; 

148 


THE  HEART  OF  THE  HILLS 

the  still  windmill;  and  over  all  the  atmosphere  of 
careless,  magnificent  luxury  and  slow  decay;  the 
stucco  peeled  off  in  great  patches,  the  stable  roofs 
sagging,  the  windmill  wheelless,  the  fences  fol 
lowing  the  line  of  a  drunken  man's  walk,  the  trees 
storm-torn,  and  the  mournful  cedars  harping  with 
every  passing  wind  a  requiem  for  the  glory  that 
was  gone.  As  he  looked,  the  memory  of  the  old 
man's  funeral  came  to  Burnham:  the  white  old 
face  in  the  coffin — haughty,  noble,  proud,  and  the 
spirit  of  it  unconquered  even  by  death;  the  long 
procession  of  carriages,  the  slow  way  to  the  cem 
etery,  the  stops  on  that  way,  the  creaking  of 
wheels  and  harness,  and  the  awe  of  it  all  to  the 
boy,  Gray,  who  rode  with  him.  Then  the  hos 
pitable  doors  of  the  princely  old  house  were  closed 
and  the  princely  life  that  had  made  merry  for  so 
long  within  its  walls  came  sharply  to  an  end,  and 
it  stood  now,  desolate,  gloomy,  haunted,  the  last 
link  between  the  life  that  was  gone  and  the  life 
that  was  nqw  breaking  just  ahead.  A  mile  on, 
the  twin-pillared  houses  of  brick  jutted  from  a 
long  swelling  knoll  on  each  side  of  the  road.  In 
each  the  same  spirit  had  lived  and  was  yet  alive. 

In  Gray's  home  it  had  gone  on  unchecked 
toward  the  same  tragedy,  but  in  Marjorie's  the 
thrifty,  quiet  force  of  her  mother's  hand  had  been 
in  power,  and  in  the  little  girl  the  same  force  was 
plain.  Her  father  was  a  Pendleton  of  the  Pen- 
dletons,  too,  but  the  same  gentle  force  had,  with- 

149 


THE  HEART  OF  THE  HILLS 

out  curb  or  check-rein,  so  guided  him  that  while  he 
lived  he  led  proudly  with  never  a  suspicion  that 
he  was  being  led.  And  since  the  death  of  Gray's 
mother  and  Marjorie's  father  each  that  was  left 
had  been  faithful  to  the  partner  gone,  and  in  spite 
of  prediction  and  gossip,  the  common  neighbor 
hood  prophecy  had  remained  unfulfilled. 

A  mile  farther  onward,  the  face  of  the  land  on 
each  side  changed  suddenly  and  sharply  and  be 
came  park-like.  Not  a  ploughed  acre  was  visible, 
no  tree-top  was  shattered,  no  broken  boughs  hung 
down.  The  worm  fence  disappeared  and  neat  white 
lines  flashed  divisions  of  pastures,  it  seemed,  for 
miles.  A  great  amphitheatrical  red  barn  sat  on 
every  little  hill  or  a  great  red  rectangular  tobacco 
barn.  A  huge  dairy  was  building  of  brick.  Pad 
docks  and  stables  were  everywhere,  macadamized 
roads  ran  from  the  main  highway  through  the  fields, 
and  on  the  highest  hill  visible  stood  a  great  villa 
— a  colossal  architectural  stranger  in  the  land — 
and  Burnham  was  driving  by  a  row  of  neat  red 
cottages,  strangers,  too,  in  the  land.  In  the  old 
Stonewall  neighborhood  that  Burnham  had  left 
the  gradual  depopulation  around  old  Hiram  left 
him  almost  as  alone  as  his  pioneer  grandfather 
had  been,  and  the  home  of  the  small  farmers  about 
him  had  been  filled  by  the  tobacco  tenant.  From 
the  big  villa  emanated  a  similar  force  with  a  sim 
ilar  tendency,  but  old  Hiram,  compared  with  old 
Morton  Sanders,  was  as  a  slow  fire  to  a  lightning- 

150 


THE  HEART  OF  THE  HILLS 

bolt.  Sanders  was  from  the  East,  had  unlimited 
wealth,  and  loved  race-horses.  Purchasing  a  farm 
for  them,  the  Saxon  virus  in  his  Kentucky  blood 
for  land  had  gotten  hold  of  him,  and  he,  too,  had 
started  depopulating  the  country;  only  where  old 
Hiram  bought  roods,  he  bought  acres;  and  where 
Hiram  bagged  the  small  farmer  for  game,  Sanders 
gunned  for  the  aristocrat  as  well.  It  was  for  San 
ders  that  Colonel  Pendleton  had  gone  to  the  moun 
tains  long  ago  to  gobble  coal  lands.  It  was  to 
him  that  the  roof  over  little  Jason's  head  and  the 
earth  under  his  feet  had  been  sold,  and  the  school 
master  smiled  a  little  bitterly  when  he  turned  at 
last  into  a  gate  and  drove  toward  a  stately  old 
home  in  the  midst  of  ancient  cedars,  for  he  was 
thinking  of  the  little  mountaineer  and  of  the  let 
ter  St.  Hilda  had  sent  him  years  ago. 

"Jason  has  come  back,"  she  wrote,  "'to  learn 
some  way  o'  gittin'  his  land  back.' " 

For  the  school-master's  reflections  during  his 
long  drive  had  not  been  wholly  impersonal.  With 
his  own  family  there  had  been  the  same  change, 
the  same  passing,  the  workings  of  the  same  force 
in  the  same  remorseless  way,  and  to  him,  too, 
the  same  doom  had  come.  The  home  to  which  he 
was  driving  had  been  his,  but  it  was  Morton 
Sanders's  now.  His  brother  lived  there  as  man 
ager  of  Sanders's  flocks,  herds,  and  acres,  and  in 
the  house  of  his  fathers  the  school-master  now 
paid  his  own  brother  for  his  board. 


XVI 

boy  was  curled  up  on  the  rear  seat  of 
the  smoking-car.  His  face  was  upturned 
to  the  glare  of  light  above  him,  the  train  bumped, 
jerked,  and  swayed;  smoke  and  dust  rolled  in  at 
the  open  window  and  cinders  stung  his  face,  but 
he  slept  as  peacefully  as  though  he  were  in  one 
of  the  huge  feather-beds  at  his  grandfather's 
house — slept  until  the  conductor  shook  him  by 
the  shoulder,  when  he  opened  his  eyes,  grunted, 
and  closed  them  again.  The  train  stopped,  a 
brakeman  yanked  him  roughly  to  his  feet,  put  a 
cheap  suit-case  into  his  hand,  and  pushed  him, 
still  dazed,  into  the  chill  morning  air.  The  train 
rumbled  on  and  left  him  blinking  into  a  lantern 
held  up  to  his  face,  but  he  did  not  look  promis 
ing  as  a  hotel  guest  and  the  darky  porter  turned 
abruptly;  and  the  boy  yawned  long  and  deeply, 
with  his  arms  stretched  above  his  head,  dropped 
on  the  frosty  bars  of  a  baggage-truck  and  rose 
again  shivering.  Cocks  were  crowing,  light  was 
showing  in  the  east,  the  sea  of  mist  that  he  well 
knew  was  about  him,  but  no  mountains  loomed 
above  it,  and  St.  Hilda's  prize  pupil,  Jason  Hawn, 
woke  sharply  at  last  with  a  tingling  that  went 
from  head  to  foot.  Once  more  he  was  in  the 

152 


THE  HEART  OF  THE  HILLS 

land  of  the  Blue-grass,  his  journey  was  almost 
over,  and  in  a  few  hours  he  would  put  his  con 
fident  feet  on  a  new  level  and  march  on  upward. 
Gradually,  as  the  lad  paced  the  platform,  the 
mist  thinned  and  the  outlines  of  things  came  out. 
A  mysterious  dark  bulk  high  in  the  air  showed  as 
a  water-tank,  roofs  new  to  mountain  eyes  jutted 
upward,  trees  softly  emerged,  a  desolate  dusty 
street  opened  before  him,  and  the  cocks  crowed 
on  lustily  all  around  him  and  from  farm-houses 
far  away.  The  crowing  made  him  hungry,  and 
he  went  to  the  light  of  a  little  eating-house  and 
asked  the  price  of  the  things  he  saw  on  the  coun 
ter  there,  but  the  price  was  too  high.  He  shook 
his  head  and  went  out,  but  his  pangs  were  so 
keen  that  he  went  back  for  a  cup  of  coffee  and  a 
hard-boiled  egg,  and  then  he  heard  the  coming 
thunder  of  his  train.  The  sun  was  rising  as  he 
sped  on  through  the  breaking  mist  toward  the 
Blue-grass  town  that  in  pioneer  days  was  known 
as  the  Athens  of  the  West.  In  a  few  minutes  the 
train  slackened  in  mid-air  and  on  a  cloud  of  mist 
between  jutting  cliffs,  it  seemed,  and  the  startled 
lad,  looking  far  down  through  it,  saw  a  winding 
yellow  light,  and  he  was  rushing  through  autumn 
fields  again  before  he  realized  that  the  yellow 
light  was  the  Kentucky  River  surging  down  from 
the  hills.  Back  up  the  stream  surged  his  mem 
ories,  making  him  faint  with  homesickness,  for 
it  was  the  last  link  that  bound  him  to  the  moun- 

153 


THE  HEART  OF  THE  HILLS 

tains.  But  both  home  and  hills  were  behind  him 
now,  and  he  shook  himself  sharply  and  lost  him 
self  again  in  the  fields  of  grass  and  grain,  the 
grazing  stock  and  the  fences,  houses,  and  barns 
that  reeled  past  his  window.  Steve  Hawn  met 
him  at  the  station  with  a  rattle-trap  buggy  and 
stared  at  him  long  and  hard. 

"I'd  hardly  knowed  ye — -you've  growed  like  a 
weed." 

"How's  the  folks?"  asked  Jason. 

"StirrinV 

Silently  they  rattled  down  the  street,  each  side 
of  which  was  lined  with  big  wagons  loaded  with 
tobacco  and  covered  with  cotton  cloth — there 
seemed  to  be  hundreds  of  them. 

"Hell's  a-comin'  about  that  terbaccer  up  here," 
said  Steve. 

"Hell's  a-comin'  in  the  mountains  if  that  rob 
ber  up  here  at  the  capital  steals  the  next  election 
for  governor,"  said  Jason,  and  Steve  -looked  up 
quickly  and  with  some  uneasiness.  He  himself 
had  heard  vaguely  that  somebody,  somewhere, 
and  in  some  way,  had  robbed  his  own  party  of 
their  rights  and  would  go  on  robbing  at  the  polls, 
but  this  new  Jason  seemed  to  know  all  about  it, 
so  Steve  nodded  wisely. 

"Yes,  my  feller." 

Through  town  they  drove,  and  when  they 
started  out  into  the  country  they  met  more  wagons 
of  tobacco  coming  in. 

154 


THE  HEART  OF  THE  HILLS 

"How's  the  folks  in  the  mountains?" 

"About  the  same  as  usual,"  said  the  boy. 
"Grandpap's  poorly.  The  war's  over  just  now 
— folks  V  busy  makin'  money.  Uncle  Arch's  still 
takin'  up  options.  The  railroad's  comin'  up  the 
river" — the  lad's  face  darkened — "an'  land's  sell- 
in'  fer  three  times  as  much  as  you  sold  me  out 
fer." 

Steve's  face  darkened  too,  but  he  was  silent. 

"Found  out  yit  who  killed  yo'  daddy?" 

Jason's  answer  was  short. 

"If  I  had  I  wouldn't  tell  you." 

"Must  be  purty  good  shot  now?" 

"I  hain't  shot  a  pistol  off  fer  four  year,"  said 
the  lad  again  shortly,  and  Steve  stared. 

"Whut  devilmint  are  you  in  up  here  now?" 
asked  Jason  calmly  and  with  no  apparent  notice 
of  the  start  Steve  gave. 

"Who's  been  a-tellin'  you  lies  about  me?" 
asked  Steve  with  angry  suspicion. 

"I  hain't  heerd  a  word,"  said  Jason  coolly. 
"I  bet  you  burned  that  toll-gate  the  morning  I 
left  here.  Thar's  devilmint  goin'  on  everywhar, 
an'  if  there's  any  around  you  I  know  you  can't 
keep  out  o'  it." 

Steve  laughed  with  relief. 

"You  can't  git  away  with  devilmint  here  like 
you  can  in  the  mountains,  an'  I'm  'tendin'  to  my 
own  business." 

Jason  made  no  comment  and  Steve  went  on: 
155 


THE  HEART  OF  THE  HILLS 

"I've  paid  fer  this  hoss  an'  buggy  an'  I  got 
things  hung  up  at  home  an'  a  leetle  money  in  the 
bank,  an'  yo'  ma  says  she  wouldn't  go  back  to 
the  mountains  fer  nothin'." 

"How's  Mavis?"  asked  Jason  abruptly. 

"Reckon  you  wouldn't  know  her.  She's  al'ays 
runnin'  aroun'  with  that  Pendleton  boy  an'  gal, 
an'  she's  chuck-full  o'  new-fangled  notions.  She's 
the  purtiest  gal  I  ever  seed,  an',"  he  added  slyly, 
"looks  like  that  Pendleton  boy's  plumb  crazy  'bout 
her." 

Jason  made  no  answer  and  showed  no  sign  of 
interest,  much  less  jealousy,  and  yet,  though  he 
was  thinking  of  the  Pendleton  girl  and  wanted  to 
ask  some  question  about  her,  a  little  inconsistent 
rankling  started  deep  within  him  at  the  news  of 
Mavis's  disloyalty  to  him.  They  were  approach 
ing  the  lane  that  led  to  Steve's  house  now,  and 
beyond  the  big  twin  houses  were  visible. 

"Yo'  Uncle  Arch's  been  here  a  good  deal,  an' 
he's  tuk  a  powerful  fancy  to  Mavis  an'  he's  goin' 
to  send  her  to  the  same  college  school  in  town 
whar  you're  goin'.  Marjorie  and  Gray  is  a-goin' 
thar  too,  I  reckon." 

Jason's  heart  beat  fast  at  these  words.  Gray 
had  the  start  of  him,  but  he  would  give  the  Blue- 
grass  boy  a  race  now  in  school  and  without.  As 
they  turned  into  the  lane,  he  could  see  the  woods 
—could  almost  see  the  tree  around  which  he  had 
circled  drunk,  raging,  and  shooting  his  pistol,  and 

156 


THE  HEART  OF  THE  HILLS 

his  face  burned  with  the  memory.  And  over  in 
the  hollow  he  had  met  Marjorie  on  her  pony,  and 
he  could  see  the  tears  in  her  eyes,  hear  her  voice, 
and  feel  the  clasp  of  her  hand  again.  Though 
neither  knew  it,  a  new  life  had  started  for  him 
there  and  then.  He  had  kept  his  promise,  and  he 
wondered  if  she  would  Femember  and  be  glad. 

His  mother  was  on  the  porch,  waiting  and 
watching  for  him,  with  one  hand  shading  her 
eyes.  She  rushed  for  the  gate,  and  when  he 
stepped  slowly  from  the  buggy  she  gave  a  look 
of  wondering  surprise  and  pride,  burst  into  tears, 
and  for  the  first  time  in  her  life  threw  her  arms 
around  him  and  kissed  him,  to  his  great  confusion 
and  shame.  In  the  doorway  stood  a  tall,  slender 
girl  with  a  mass  of  black  hair,  and  she,  too,  with 
shining  eyes  rushed  toward  him,  stopping  de 
fiantly  short  within  a  few  feet  of  him  when  she 
met  his  cool,  clear  gaze,  and,  without  even  speak 
ing  his  name,  held  out  her  hand.  Then  with 
intuitive  suspicion  she  flashed  a  look  at  Steve  and 
knew  that  his  tongue  had  been  wagging.  She 
flushed  angrily,  but  with  feminine  swiftness  caught 
her  lost  poise  and,  lifting  her  head,  smiled. 

"I  wouldn't  'a'  known  ye,"  she  said. 

"An*  I  wouldn't  'a'  known  you,"  said  Jason. 

The  girl  said  no  more,  and  the  father  looked 
at  his  daughter  and  the  mother  at  her  son,  puz 
zled  by  the  domestic  tragedy  so  common  in  this 
land  of  ours,  where  the  gates  of  opportunity  swing 

157 


THE  HEART  OF  THE  HILLS 

wide  for  the  passing  on  of  the  young.  But  of 
the  two,  Steve  Hawn  was  the  more  puzzled  and 
uneasy,  for  Jason,  like  himself,  was  a  product  of 
the  hills  and  had  had  less  chance  than  even  he  to 
know  the  outside  world. 

The  older  mountaineer  wore  store  clothes,  but 
so  did  Jason.  He  had  gone  to  meet  the  boy, 
self-assured  and  with  the  purpose  of  patronage 
and  counsel,  and  he  had  met  more  assurance  than 
his  own  and  a  calm  air  of  superiority  that  was 
troubling  to  Steve's  pride.  The  mother,  always 
apologetic  on  account  of  the  one  great  act  of 
injustice  she  had  done  her  son,  felt  awe  as  she 
looked,  and  as  her  pride  grew  she  became  abject, 
and  the  boy  accepted  the  attitude  of  each  as  his 
just  due.  But  on  Mavis  the  wave  of  his  influence 
broke  as  on  a  rock.  She  was  as  much  changed 
from  the  Mavis  he  had  last  seen  as  she  was  at 
that  time  from  the  little  Mavis  of  the  hills,  and 
he  felt  her  eyes  searching  him  from  head  to  foot 
just  as  she  had  done  that  long-ago  time  when  he 
saw  her  first  in  the  hunting-field.  He  knew  that 
now  she  was  comparing  him  with  even  higher 
standards  than  she  was  then,  and  that  now,  as 
then,  he  was  falling  short,  and  he  looked  up  sud 
denly  and  caught  her  eyes  with  a  grim,  confident 
little  smile  that  made  her  shift  her  gaze  con 
fusedly.  She  moved  nervously  in  her  chair  and 
her  cheeks  began  to  burn.  And  Steve  talked  on 
— volubly  for  him — while  the  mother  threw  in  a 


THE  HEART  OF  THE  HILLS 

timid  homesick  question  to  Jason  now  and  then 
about  something  in  the  mountains,  and  Mavis 
kept  still  and  looked  at  the  boy  no  more.  By 
and  by  the  two  women  went  to  their  work,  and 
Jason  followed  Steve  about  the  little  place  to  look 
at  the  cow  and  a  few  pigs  and  at  the  garden  and 
up  over  the  hill  to  the  tobacco-patch  that  Steve 
was  tending  on  shares  with  Colonel  Pendleton. 
After  dinner  Mavis  disappeared,  and  the  step 
mother  reckoned  she  had  gone  over  to  see  Mar- 
jorie  Pendleton — "she  was  al'ays  a-goin'  over 
thar" — and  in  the  middle  of  the  afternoon  the 
boy  wandered  aimlessly  forth  into  the  Blue-grass 
fields. 

Spring  green  the  fields  were,  and  the  woods, 
but  scarcely  touched  by  the  blight  of  autumn, 
were  gray  as  usual  from  the  limestone  turnpike, 
which,  when  he  crossed  it,  was  ankle-deep  in  dust. 
A  cloud  of  yellow  butterflies  fluttered  crazily  be 
fore  him  in  a  sunlight  that  was  hardly  less  golden, 
and  when  he  climbed  the  fence  a  rabbit  leaped 
beneath  him  and  darted  into  a  patch  of  iron- 
weeds.  Instinctively  he  leaped  after  it,  crashing 
through  the  purple  crowns,  and  as  suddenly 
stopped  at  the  foolishness  of  pursuit,  when  he 
had  left  his  pistol  in  his  suit-case,  and  with  an 
other  sharp  memory  of  the  rabbit  hunt  he  had 
encountered  when  he  made  his  first  appearance  in 
that  land.  Half  unconsciously  then  his  thoughts 
turned  him  through  the  woods  and  through  a 

159 


THE  HEART  OF  THE  HILLS 

pasture  toward  the  twin  homes  of  the  Pendle- 
tons,  and  on  the  top  of  the  next  hill  he  could  see 
them  on  their  wooded  eminences — could  even  see 
the  stile  where  he  had  had  his  last  vision  of  Mar- 
jorie,  and  he  dropped  in  the  thick  grass,  looking 
long  and  hard  and  wondering. 

Around  the  corner  of  the  yard  fence  a  negro 
appeared  leading  a  prancing  iron-gray  horse,  the 
front  doors  opened,  a  tall  girl  in  a  black  riding- 
habit  came  swiftly  down  the  walk,  and  a  moment 
later  the  iron-gray  was  bearing  her  at  a  swift 
gallop  toward  the  turnpike  gate.  As  she  disap 
peared  over  a  green  summit,  his  heart  stood  quite 
still.  Could  that  tall  woman  be  the  little  girl 
who,  with  a  tear,  a  tremor  of  the  voice,  and  a 
touch  of  the  hand,  had  swerved  him  from  the 
beaten  path  of  a  century?  Mavis  had  grown,  he 
himself  had  grown — and,  of  course,  Marjorie,  too, 
had  grown.  He  began  to  wonder  whether  she 
would  recollect  him,  would  know  him  when  he 
met  her  face  to  face,  would  remember  the  promise 
she  had  asked  and  he  had  given,  and  if  she  would 
be  pleased  to  know  that  he  had  kept  it.  In  the 
passing  years  the  boy  had  actually  lost  sight  of 
her  as  flesh  and  blood,  for  she  had  become  en 
shrined  among  his  dreams  by  night  and  his  dreams 
by  day;  among  the  visions  his  soul  had  seen  when 
he  had  sat  under  the  old  circuit  rider  and  heard 
pictured  the  glories  of  the  blessed  when  mortals 
should  mingle  with  the  shining  hosts  on  high; 

1 60 


THE  HEART  OF  THE  HILLS 

and  above  even  St.  Hilda,  on  the  very  pinnacle 
of  his  new-born  and  ever-growing  ambitions, 
Marjorie  sat  enthroned  and  alone.  Light  was 
all  he  remembered  of  her — the  light  of  her  eyes 
and  of  her  hair — yes,  and  that  one  touch  of  her 
hand.  His  heart  turned  to  water  at  the  thought 
of  seeing  her  again  and  his  legs  were  trembling 
when  he  rose  to  start  back  through  the  fields. 
Another  rabbit  sprang  from  its  bed  in  a  tuft  of 
grass,  but  he  scarcely  paid  any  heed  to  it.  When 
he  crossed  the  creek  a  muskrat  was  leisurely 
swimming  for  its  hole  in  the  other  bank,  and  he 
did  not  even  pick  up  a  stone  to  throw  at  it,  but 
walked  on  dreaming  through  the  woods.  As  he 
was  about  to  emerge  from  them  he  heard  voices 
ahead  of  him,  high-pitched  and  angry,  and  with 
the  caution  of  his  race  he  slipped  forward  and 
stopped,  listening.  In  a  tobacco-patch  on  the 
edge  of  the  woods  Steve  Hawn  had  stopped  work 
and  was  leaning  on  the  fence.  Seated  on  it  was 
one  of  the  small  farmers  of  the  neighborhood. 
They  were  not  quarrelling,  and  the  boy  could 
hardly  believe  his  ears. 

"I  tell  you  that  fellow — they're  callin'  him  the 
autocrat  already — that  fellow  will  have  two 
of  his  judges  to  your  one  at  every  election  booth 
in  the  State.  He'll  steal  every  precinct  and  he'll 
be  settin'  in  the  governor's  chair  as  sure  as  you 
are  standing  here.  I'm  a  Democrat,  but  I've  been 
half  a  Republican  ever  since  this  free-silver  fool- 

161 


THE  HEART  OF  THE  HILLS 

ishness  came  up,  and  I'm  going  to  vote  against 
him.  Now,  all  you  mountain  people  are  Repub 
licans,  but  you  might  as  well  all  be  Democrats. 
You  haven't  got  a  chance  on  earth.  What  are 
you  goin'  to  do  about  it?" 

Steve  Hawn  shook  his  head  helplessly,  but 
Jason  saw  his  huge  hand  grip  his  tobacco  knife 
and  his  own  blood  beat  indignantly  at  his  tem 
ples.  The  farmer  threw  one  leg  back  over  the 
fence. 

"There'll  be  hell  to  pay  when  the  day  comes," 
he  said,  and  he  strode  away,  while  the  mountaineer 
leaned  motionless  on  the  fence  with  his  grip  on 
the  knife  unrelaxed. 

Noiselessly  the  boy  made  his  way  through  the 
edge  of  the  woods,  out  under  the  brow  of  a  hill, 
and  went  on  his  restless  way  up  the  bank  of  the 
creek  toward  Steve's  home.  When  he  turned 
toward  the  turnpike  he  found  that  he  had  passed 
the  house  a  quarter  of  a  mile,  so  he  wheeled 
back  down  the  creek,  and  where  the  mouth  of  the 
lane  opened  from  the  road  he  dropped  in  a  spot 
of  sunlight  on  the  crest  of  a  little  cliff,  his  legs 
weary  but  his  brain  still  tirelessly  at  work.  These 
people  of  the  Blue-grass  were  not  only  robbing 
him  and  his  people  of  their  lands,  but  of  their 
political  birthright  as  well.  The  fact  that  the 
farmer  was  on  his  side  but  helped  make  the  boy 
know  it  was  truth,  and  the  resentments  that 
were  always  burning  like  a  bed  of  coals  deep 

162 


THE  HEART  OF  THE  HILLS 

within  him  sprang  into  flames  again.  The  shad 
ows  lengthened  swiftly  about  him  and  closed  over 
him,  and  then  the  air  grew  chill.  Abruptly  he 
rose  and  stood  rigid,  for  far  up  the  lane,  and  com 
ing  over  a  little  hill,  he  saw  the  figure  of  a  man 
leading  a  black  horse  and  by  his  side  the  figure  of 
a  woman — both  visible  for  a  moment  before  they 
disappeared  behind  the  bushes  that  lined  the  lane. 
When  they  were  visible  again  Jason  saw  that 
they  were  a  boy  and  girl,  and  when  they  once 
more  came  into  view  at  a  bend  of  the  lane  and 
stopped  he  saw  that  the  girl,  with  her  face  down 
cast,  was  Mavis.  While  they  stood  the  boy  sud 
denly  put  his  arm  around  her,  but  she  eluded  him 
and  fled  to  the  fence,  and  with  a  laugh  he  climbed 
on  his  horse  and  came  down  the  lane.  In  a  burn 
ing  rage  Jason  started  to  slide  down  the  cliff  and 
pull  the  intruder,  whoever  he  was,  from  his  horse, 
and  then  he  saw  Mavis,  going  swiftly  through  the 
fields,  turn  and  wave  her  hand.  That  stopped 
him  still — he  could  not  punish  where  there  was 
apparently  no  offence — so  with  sullen  eyes  he 
watched  the  mouth  of  the  lane  give  up  a  tall  lad 
on  a  black  thoroughbred,  his  hat  in  his  hand  and 
his  handsome  face  still  laughing  and  still  turned 
for  another  glimpse  of  the  girl.  Another  hand- 
wave  came  from  Mavis  at  the  edge  of  the  woods, 
and  glowering  Jason  stood  in  full  view  unseen  and 
watched  Gray  Pendleton  go  thundering  past  him 
down  the  road. 

163 


THE  HEART  OF  THE  HILLS 

Mavis  had  not  gone  to  see  Marjorie — she  had 
sneaked  away  to  meet  Gray;  his  lips  curled  con 
temptuously — Mavis  was  a  sneak,  and  so  was 
Gray  Pendleton.  Then  a  thought  struck  him — 
why  was  Mavis  behaving  like  a  brush-girl  this 
way,  and  why  didn't  Gray  go  to  see  her  in  her 
own  home,  open  and  above-board,  like  a  man? 
The  curl  of  the  boy's  lips  settled  into  a  straight, 
grim  line,  and  once  more  he  turned  slowly  down 
the  stream  that  he  might  approach  Steve's  house 
from  another  direction.  Half  an  hour  later,  when 
he  climbed  the  turnpike  fence,  he  heard  the  gal 
lop  of  iron-shod  feet  and  he  saw  bearing  down  on 
him  an  iron-gray  horse.  It  was  Marjorie.  He 
knew  her  from  afar;  he  gripped  the  rail  beneath 
him  with  both  hands  and  his  heart  seemed  almost 
to  stop.  She  was  looking  him  full  in  the  face  now, 
and  then,  with  a  nod  and  a  smile  she  would  have 
given  a  beggar  or  a  tramp,  she  swept  him  by. 


164 


XVII 

'T^HERE  was  little  about  Jason  and  his  school 
career  that  John  Burnham  had  not  heard 
from  his  friend  St.  Hilda,  for  she  kept  sending  at 
intervals  reports  of  him,  so  that  Burnham  knew 
how  doggedly  the  lad  had  worked  in  school  and 
out;  what  a  leader  he  was  among  his  fellows,  and 
how,  that  he  might  keep  out  of  the  feud,  he  had 
never  gone  to  his  grandfather's  even  during  va 
cations,  except  for  a  day  or  two,  but  had  hired 
himself  out  to  some  mountain  farmer  and  had 
toiled  like  a  slave,  always  within  St.  Hilda's  reach. 
She  had  won  Jason's  heart  from  the  start,  so  that 
he  had  told  her  frankly  about  his  father's  death, 
the  coming  of  the  geologist,  the  sale  of  his 
home,  the  flight  of  his  mother  and  Steve  Hawn, 
his  shooting  at  Babe  Honeycutt,  and  his  own 
flight  after  them,  but  at  the  brink  of  one  con 
fession  he  always  balked.  Never  could  St.  Hilda 
learn  just  why  he  had  given  up  the  manly  preroga 
tives  of  pistol,  whiskey-jug,  and  a  deadly  purpose 
of  revenge,  to  accept  in  their  place,  if  need  be, 
the  despised  duties  of  women-folks.  But  his  grim 
and  ready  willingness  for  the  exchange  appealed 
to  St.  Hilda  so  strongly  that  she  had  always 
saved  him  as  much  of  these  duties  as  she  could. 

165 


THE  HEART  OF  THE  HILLS 

The  truth  was  that  the  school-master  had  slyly 
made  a  diplomatic  use  of  their  mutual  interest 
in  Jason  that  was  masterly.  There  had  been  little 
communication  between  them  since  the  long-ago 
days  when  she  had  given  him  her  final  decision 
and  gone  on  her  mission  to  the  mountains,  until 
Jason  had  come  to  be  an  important  link  between 
them.  Gradually,  after  that,  St.  Hilda  had  slowly 
come  to  count  on  the  school-master's  sympathy 
and  understanding,  and  more  than  once  she  had 
written  not  only  for  his  advice  but  for  his  help 
as  well.  And  wisely,  through  it  all,  Burnham 
had  never  sounded  the  personal  note,  and  smil 
ingly  he  had  noted  the  passing  of  all  suspicion 
on  her  part,  the  birth  of  her  belief  that  he  was 
cured  of  his  love  for  her  and  would  bother  her  no 
more,  and  now,  in  her  last  letter  announcing 
Jason's  coming  to  the  Blue-grass,  there  was  a  dis 
tinct  personal  atmosphere  that  almost  made  him 
chuckle.  St.  Hilda  even  wondered  whether  he 
might  not  care,  during  some  vacation,  to  come 
down  and  see  with  his  own  eyes  the  really  remark 
able  work  he  knew  she  was  doing  down  there. 
And  when  he  wrote  during  the  summer  that  he 
had  been  called  to  the  suddenly  vacated  chair  of 
geology  in  the  college  Jason  had  been  prepared 
for,  her  delight  thrilled  him,  though  he  had  to 
wonder  how  much  of  it  might  be  due  to  the  fact 
that  her  protege  would  thus  be  near  him  for  help 
and  counsel. 

1 66 


THE  HEART  OF  THE  HILLS 

His  face  was  almost  aglow  when  he  drove  out 
through  the  gate  that  morning  on  his  way  to  the 
duties  of  his  first  day.  The  neighborhood  children 
were  already  on  their  way  to  school,  but  they  were 
mostly  the  children  of  tobacco  tenants,  and  when 
he  passed  the  school-house  he  saw  a  young  woman 
on  the  porch — two  facts  that  were  significant. 
The  neighborhood  church  was  going,  the  neigh 
borhood  school  was  going,  the  man-teacher  was 
gone — and  he  himself  was  perhaps  the  last  of  the 
line  that  started  in  coonskin  caps  and  mocca 
sins.  The  gentleman  farmers  who  had  made  the 
land  distinct  and  distinguished  were  renting  their 
acres  to  tobacco  tenants  on  shares  and  were  mov 
ing  to  town  to  get  back  their  negro  servants  and 
to  provide  their  children  with  proper  schooling. 
And  those  children  of  the  gentle  people,  it  seemed, 
were  growing  more  and  more  indifferent  to  educa 
tion  and  culture,  and  less  and  less  marked  by  the 
gentle  manners  that  were  their  birthright.  And 
when  he  thought  of  the  toll-gate  war,  the  threat 
ened  political  violence  almost  at  hand,  and  the 
tobacco  troubles  which  he  knew  must  some  day 
come,  he  wondered  with  a  sick  heart  if  a  general 
decadence  was  not  going  on  in  the  land  for  which 
he  would  have  given  his  life  in  peace  as  readily 
as  in  war.  In  the  mountains,  according  to  St. 
Hilda,  the  people  had  awakened  from  a  sleep  of 
a  hundred  years.  Lawlessness  was  on  the  de 
crease,  the  feud  was  disappearing,  railroads  were 


THE  HEART  OF  THE  HILLS 

coming  in,  the  hills  were  beginning  to  give  up  the 
wealth  of  their  timber,  iron,  and  coal.  County 
schools  were  increasing,  and  the  pathetic  eager 
ness  of  mountain  children  to  learn  and  the  pa 
thetic  hardships  they  endured  to  get  to  school 
and  to  stay  there  made  her  heart  bleed  and  his 
ache  to  help  them.  And  in  his  own  land,  what  a 
contrast!  Three  years  before,  the  wedge  of  free 
silver  had  split  the  State  in  twain.  Into  this 
breach  had  sprung  that  new  man  with  the  new 
political  method  that  threatened  disaster  to  the 
commonwealth.  To  his  supporters,  he  was  the 
enemy  of  corporations,  the  friend  of  widows  and 
orphans,  the  champion  of  the  poor — this  man; 
to  his  enemies,  he  was  the  most  malign  figure  that 
had  ever  thrust  head  above  the  horizon  of  Ken 
tucky  politics — and  so  John  Burnham  regarded 
him;  to  both  he  was  the  autocrat,  cold,  exacting, 
imperious,  and  his  election  bill  would  make  him 
as  completely  master  of  the  commonwealth  as 
Diaz  in  Mexico  or  Menelik  in  Abyssinia.  The 
dazed  people  awoke  and  fought,  but  the  autocrat 
had  passed  his  bill.  It  was  incredible,  but  could 
he  enforce  it?  No  one  knew,  but  the  midsummer 
convention  for  the  nomination  of  governor  came, 
and  among  the  candidates  he  entered  it,  the  last 
in  public  preference.  But  he  carried  that  con 
vention  at  the  pistol's  point,  came  out  the  Demo 
cratic  nominee,  and  now  stood  smilingly  ready  to 
face  the  most  terrible  political  storm  that  had 

168 


THE  HEART  OF  THE  HILLS 

ever  broken  over  Kentucky.  The  election  was 
less  than  two  months  away,  the  State  was  seeth 
ing  as  though  on  the  trembling  crisis  of  a  civil 
war,  and  the  division  that  John  Burnham  ex 
pected  between  friend  and  friend,  brother  and 
brother,  and  father  and  son  had  come.  The 
mountains  were  on  fire  and  there  might  even  be 
an  invasion  from  those  black  hills  led  by  the 
spirit  of  the  Picts  and  Scots  of  old,  and  aided  and 
abetted  by  the  head,  hand,  and  tongue  of  the  best 
element  of  the  Blue-grass.  The  people  of  the 
Blue-grass  had  known  little  and  cared  less  about 
these  shadowy  hillsmen,  but  it  looked  to  John 
Burnham  as  though  they  might  soon  be  forced  to 
know  and  care  more  than  would  be  good  for  the 
peace  of  the  State  and  its  threatened  good  name. 

A  rattle-trap  buggy  was  crawling  up  a  hill  ahead 
of  him,  and  when  he  passed  it  Steve  Hawn  was 
flopping  the  reins,  and  by  him  was  Mavis  with  a 
radiant  face  and  sparkling  eyes. 

"Where's  Jason?"  John  Burnham  called,  and 
the  girl's  face  grew  quickly  serious. 

"Gone  on,  afoot,"  laughed  Steve  loudly.  "He 
started  'bout  crack  o'  day." 

The  school-master  smiled.  On  the  slope  of 
the  next  hill,  two  carriages,  each  drawn  by  a 
spanking  pair  of  trotters,  swept  by  him.  From 
one  he  got  a  courteous  salute  from  Colonel  Pen- 
dleton  and  a  happy  shout  from  Gray,  and  from 
the  other  a  radiant  greeting  from  Marjorie  and 


THE  HEART  OF  THE  HILLS 

her  mother.  Again  John  Burnham  smiled  thought 
fully.  For  him  the  hope  of  the  Blue-grass  was 
in  the  joyous  pair  ahead  of  him,  the  hope  of  the 
mountains  was  in  the  girl  behind  and  the  sturdy 
youth  streaking  across  the  dawn-wet  fields,  and 
in  the  four  the  hope  of  his  State;  and  his  smile 
was  pleased  and  hopeful. 

Soon  on  his  left  were  visible  the  gray  lines  of 
the  old  Transylvania  University  where  Jefferson 
Davis  had  gone  to  college  while  Abraham  Lin 
coln  was  splitting  rails  and  studying  by  candle 
light  a  hundred  miles  away,  and  its  campus  was 
dotted  with  swiftly  moving  figures  of  boys  and 
girls  on  their  way  to  the  majestic  portico  on  the 
hill.  The  streets  were  filled  with  eager  young  faces, 
and  he  drove  on  through  them  to  the  red-brick 
walls  of  the  State  University,  on  the  other  side 
of  the  town,  where  his  labors  were  to  begin.  And 
when,  half  an  hour  later,  he  turned  into  the  cam 
pus  afoot,  he  found  himself  looking  among  the 
boys  who  thronged  the  walk,  the  yard,  and  the 
entrances  of  the  study  halls  for  the  face  of  Jason 
Hawn. 

Tremblingly  the  boy  had  climbed  down  from 
the  fence  after  Marjorie  galloped  by  him  the  day 
before,  had  crossed  the  pike  slowly,  sunk  dully 
at  the  foot  of  an  oak  in  the  woods  beyond,  and  sat 
there,  wide-eyed  and  stunned,  until  dark.  Had 
he  been  one  of  the  followers  of  the  star  of  Beth 
lehem,  and  had  that  star  vanished  suddenly  from 

170 


THE  HEART  OF  THE  HILLS 

the  heavens,  he  could  hardly  have  known  such 
darkness,  such  despair.  For  the  time  Mavis  and 
Gray  passed  quite  out  of  the  world  while  he  was 
wrestling  with  that  darkness,  and  it  was  only 
when  he  rose  shakily  to  his  feet  at  last  that  they 
came  back  into  it  again.  Supper  was  over  when 
he  reached  the  house,  but  Mavis  had  kept  it  for 
him,  and  while  she  waited  on  him  she  tried  to  ask 
him  questions  about  his  school-life  in  the  moun 
tains,  to  tell  him  of  her  own  in  the  Blue-grass — 
tried  to  talk  about  the  opening  of  college  next 
day,  but  he  sat  silent  and  sullen,  and  so,  puzzled 
and  full  of  resentment,  she  quietly  withdrew. 
After  he  was  through,  he  heard  her  cleaning  the 
dishes  and  putting  them  away,  and  he  saw  her 
that  night  no  more.  Next  morning,  without  a 
word  to  her  or  to  his  mother,  he  went  out  to  the 
barn  where  Steve  was  feeding. 

"If  you'll  bring  my  things  on  in  the  buggy,  I 
reckon  I'll  just  be  goin*  on." 

"Why,  we  can  all  three  git  in  the  buggy." 

Jason  shook  his  head. 

"I  hain't  goin'  to  be  late." 

Steve  laughed. 

"Well,  you'll  shore  be  on  time  if  you  start  now. 
Why,  Mavis  says " 

But  Jason  had  started  swiftly  on,  and  Steve, 
puzzled,  did  not  try  to  stop  him.  Mavis  came 
out  on  the  porch,  and  he  pointed  out  the  boy's 
figure  going  through  the  dim  fields.  "Jason's 

171 


THE  HEART  OF  THE  HILLS 

gone  on,"  he  said,  "afeerd  hell  be  late.  That 
boy's  plum'  quar." 

Jason  was  making  a  bee-line  for  more  than  the 
curve  of  the  pike,  for  more  than  the  college — he 
was  making  it  now  for  everything  in  his  life  that 
was  ahead  of  him,  and  he  meant  now  to  travel 
it  without  help  or  hindrance,  unswervingly  and 
alone.  With  St.  Hilda,  each  day  had  started  for 
him  at  dawn,  and  whether  it  started  that  early 
at  the  college  in  town  he  did  not  ask  himself  or 
anybody  else.  He  would  wait  now  for  nothing 
— nobody.  The  time  had  come  to  start,  so  he 
had  started  on  his  own  new  way,  stout  in  body, 
heart,  and  soul,  and  that  was  all. 

Soft  mists  of  flame  were  shooting  up  the  east 
ern  horizon,  soft  dew-born  mists  were  rising  from 
little  hollows  and  trailing  through  the  low  trees. 
There  had  been  a  withering  drought  lately,  but 
the  merciful  rain  had  come,  the  parched  earth 
had  drunk  deep,  and  now  under  its  mantle  of  rich 
green  it  seemed  to  be  heaving  forth  one  vast  long 
sigh  of  happy  content.  The  corn  was  long  ready 
for  the  knife,  green  sprouts  of  winter  wheat  were 
feathering  their  way  above  the  rich  brown  soil, 
and  the  cut  upturned  tobacco  stalks,  but  dimly 
seen  through  the  mists,  looked  like  little  hunch 
backed  witches  poised  on  broomsticks,  and  ready 
for  flight  at  dawn.  Vast  deviltry  those  witches 
had  done,  for  every  cut  field,  every  poor  field, 
recovering  from  the  drastic  visit  of  years  before, 

172 


THE  HEART  OF  TOE  HILLS 

was  rough,  weedy,  shaggy,  unkempt,  and  worn. 
The  very  face  of  the  land  showed  decadence,  and, 
in  the  wake  of  the  witches,  white  top,  dockweed, 
ragweed,  cockle  burr,  and  sweet  fern  had  up- 
leaped  like  some  joyous  swarm  of  criminals  un 
leashed  from  the  hand  of  the  law,  while  the  beau 
tiful  pastures  and  grassy  woodlands,  their  dignity 
outraged,  were  stretched  here  and  there  between 
them,  helpless,  but  breathing  in  the  very  mists 
their  scorn. 

When  he  reached  the  white,  dusty  road,  the 
fires  of  his  ambition  kept  on  kindling  with  every 
step,  and  his  pace,  even  in  the  cool  of  the  early 
morning,  sent  his  hat  to  his  hand,  and  plastered 
his  long  lank  hair  to  his  temples  and  the  back  of 
his  sturdy  sunburnt  neck.  The  sun  was  hardly 
star-pointing  the  horizon  when  he  saw  the  lumi 
nous  smoke-cloud  over  the  town.  He  quickened 
his  step,  and  in  his  dark  eyes  those  fires  leaped 
into  steady  flames.  The  town  was  wakening  from 
sleep.  The  driver  of  a  milk-cart  pointed  a  gen 
eral  direction  for  him  across  the  roof-tops,  but 
when  he  got  into  the  wilderness  of  houses  he  lost 
that  point  of  the  compass  and  knew  not  which 
way  to  turn.  On  a  street  corner  he  saw  a  man 
in  a  cap  and  a  long  coat  with  brass  buttons  on 
it,  a  black  stick  in  his  hand,  and  something  bulg 
ing  at  his  hip,  and  light  dawned  for  Jason. 

"Air  you  the  constable?"  he  asked,  and  the 
policeman  grinned  kindly. 

173 


THE  HEART  OF  THE  HILLS 

"I'm  one  of  'em,"  he  said. 

"Well,  how  do  I  git  to  the  college  I'm  goin'  to?" 

The  officer  grinned  good-naturedly  again,  and 
pointed  with  his  stick. 

"Follow  that  street,  and  hurry  up  or  you'll  get 
a  whippin'." 

"Thar  now,"  thought  Jason,  and  started  into 
a  trot  up  the  hill,  and  the  officer,  seeing  the  boy's 
suddenly  anxious  face,  called  to  him  to  take  it 
easy,  but  Jason,  finding  the  pavements  rather 
uneven,  took  to  the  middle  of  the  street,  and 
without  looking  back  sped  on.  It  was  a  long  run, 
but  Jason  never  stopped  until  he  saw  a  man 
standing  at  the  door  of  a  long,  low,  brick  building 
with  the  word  "Tobacco"  painted  in  huge  let 
ters  above  its  closed  doors,  and  he  ran  across  the 
street  to  him. 

"Whar's  the  college?" 

The  man  pointed  across  the  street  to  an  en 
trance  between  two  gray  stone  pillars  with  py 
ramidal  tops,  and  Jason  trotted  back,  and  trotted 
on  through  them,  and  up  the  smooth  curve  of 
the  road.  Not  a  soul  was  in  sight,  and  on  the 
empty  steps  of  the  first  building  he  came  to 
Jason  dropped,  panting. 


174 


XVIII 

campus  was  thick  with  grass  and  full 
of  trees,  there  were  buildings  of  red  brick 
everywhere,  and  all  were  deserted.  He  began  to 
feel  that  the  constable  had  made  game  of  him, 
and  he  was  indignant.  Nobody  in  the  moun 
tains  would  treat  a  stranger  that  way;  but  he 
had  reached  his  goal,  and,  no  matter  when  "school 
took  up,"  he  was  there. 

Still,  he  couldn't  help  rising  restlessly  once,  and 
then  with  a  deep  breath  he  patiently  sat  down 
again  and  waited,  looking  eagerly  around  mean 
while.  The  trees  about  him  were  low  and  young 
— they  looked  like  maples — and  multitudinous 
little  gray  birds  were  flitting  and  chattering 
around  him,  and  these  he  did  not  know,  for  the 
English  sparrow  has  not  yet  captured  the  moun 
tains.  Above  the  closed  doors  of  the  long  brick 
building  opposite  the  stone-guarded  gateway  he 
could  see  the  word  "Tobacco"  printed  in  huge 
letters,  and  farther  away  he  could  see  another 
similar  sign,  and  somehow  he  began  wondering 
why  Steve  Hawn  had  talked  so  much  about  the 
troubles  that  were  coming  over  tobacco,  and 
seemed  to  care  so  little  about  the  election  troub 
les  that  had  put  the  whole  State  on  the  wire  edge 

175 


THE  HEART  OF  THE  HILLS 

of  quivering  suspense.  Half  an  hour  passed  and 
Jason  was  getting  restless  again,  when  he  saw  an 
old  negro  shuffling  down  the  stone  walk  with  a 
bucket  in  one  hand,  a  mop  in  the  other,  and  trail 
ing  one  leg  like  a  bird  with  a  broken  wing. 

"Good-mornin',  son." 

"Do  you  know  whar  John  Burnham  is?" 

"Whut's  dat— whut's  dat?" 

"I'm  a-lookin'  fer  John  Burnham." 

"Look  hyeh,  chile,  is  you  referrin'  to  Perfesser 
Burnham?" 

"I  reckon  that's  him." 

"Well,  if  you  is,  you  better  axe  fer  him  jes* 
that-a-way — Perfesser  Perfesser — Burnham.  Well, 
Perfesser  Burnham  won't  sanctify  dis  hall  wid 
his  presence  fer  quite  a  long  while — quite  a  long 
while.  May  I  inquire,  son,  if  yo'  purpose  is  to 
attend  dis  place  o'  learnin'?" 

"I  come  to  go  to  college." 

"Yassuh,  yassuh,"  said  the  old  negro,  and  with 
no  insolence  whatever  he  guffawed  loudly. 

"Well,  suh,  looks  lak  you  come  a  long  way,  an* 
you  sutinly  got  hyeh  on  time — you  sho  did.  Well, 
son,  you  jes'  set  hyeh  as  long  as  you  please  an' 
walk  aroun*  an'  come  back  an'  den  ef  you  set  hyeh 
long  enough  agin,  you'se  a-gwine  to  see  Perfesser 
Burnham  come  right  up  dese  steps." 

So  Jason  took  the  old  man's  advice,  and  strolled 
around  the  grounds.  A  big  pond  caught  his  eye,, 
and  he  walked  along  its  grassy  bank  and  under 


THE  HEART  OF  THE  HILLS 

the  thick  willows  that  fringed  it.  He  pulled  him 
self  to  the  top  of  a  high  board  fence  at  the  upper 
end  of  it,  peered  over  at  a  broad,  smooth  athletic- 
field,  and  he  wondered  what  the  two  poles  that 
stood  at  each  end  with  a  cross-bar  between  them 
could  be,  and  why  that  tall  fence  ran  all  around 
it.  He  stared  at  the  big  chimney  of  the  power 
house,  as  tall  as  the  trunk  of  a  poplar  in  a  "dead 
ening"  at  home,  and  covered  with  vines  to  the 
top,  and  he  wondered  what  on  earth  that  could 
be.  He  looked  over  the  gate  at  the  president's 
house.  Through  the  windows  of  one  building  he 
saw  hanging  rings  and  all  sorts  of  strange  para 
phernalia,  and  he  wondered  about  them,  and, 
peering  through  one  ground-floor  window,  he  saw 
three  beds  piled  one  on  top  of  the  other,  each 
separated  from  the  other  by  the  length  of  its 
legs.  It  would  take  a  step-ladder  to  get  into  the 
top  bed — good  Lord,  did  people  sleep  that  way 
in  this  college?  Suppose  the  top  boy  rolled  out! 
And  every  building  was  covered  with  vines,  and 
it  was  funny  that  vines  grew  on  houses,  and  why 
in  the  world  didn't  folks  cut  'em  off?  It  was  all 
wonder — nothing  but  wonder — and  he  got  tired 
of  wondering  and  went  back  to  his  steps  and  sat 
patiently  down  again.  It  was  not  long  now  be 
fore  windows  began  to  bang  up  and  down  in  the 
dormitory  near  him.  Cries  and  whistles  began 
to  emanate  from  the  rooms,  and  now  and  then  a 
head  would  protrude,  and  its  eyes  never  failed, 

177 


THE  HEART  OF  THE  HILLS 

it  seemed,  to  catch  and  linger  on  the  lonely,  still 
figure  clinging  to  the  steps.  Soon  there  was  a 
rush  of  feet  downstairs,  and  a  crowd  of  boys 
emerged  and  started  briskly  for  breakfast.  Girls 
began  to  appear — short-skirted,  with  and  with 
out  hats,  with  hair  up  and  hair  down — more  girls 
than  he  had  ever  seen  before — tall  and  short,  fat 
and  thin,  and  brunette  and  blonde.  Students 
began  to  stroll  through  the  campus  gates,  and 
now  and  then  a  buggy  or  a  carriage  would  enter 
and  whisk  past  him  to  deposit  its  occupants  in 
front  of  the  building  opposite  from  where  he  sat. 
What  was  going  on  over  there?  He  wanted  to 
go  over  and  see,  for  school  might  be  taking  up 
over  there,  and,  from  being  too  early,  he  might 
be  too  late  after  all;  but  he  might  miss  John 
Burnham,  and  if  he  himself  were  late,  why  lots 
of  the  boys  and  girls  about  him  would  be  late  too, 
and  surely  if  they  knew,  which  they  must,  they 
would  not  let  that  happen.  So,  all  eyes,  he  sat 
on,  taking  in  everything,  like  the  lens  of  a  camera. 
Some  of  the  boys  wore  caps,  or  little  white  hats 
with  the  crown  pushed  in  all  around,  and,  though 
it  wasn't  muddy  and  didn't  look  as  though  it  were 
going  to  rain,  each  one  of  them  had  his  "britches" 
turned  up,  and  that  puzzled  the  mountain  boy 
sorely;  but  no  matter  why  they  did  it,  he  wouldn't 
have  to  turn  his  up,  for  they  didn't  come  to  the 
tops  of  his  shoes.  Swiftly  he  gathered  how  dif 
ferent  he  himself  was,  particularly  in  clothes, 


THE  HEART  OF  THE  HILLS 

from  all  of  them.  Nowhere  did  he  see  a  boy 
who  matched  himself  as  so  lonely  and  set  apart, 
but  with  a  shake  of  his  head  he  tossed  off  his 
inner  plea  for  sympathetic  companionship,  and 
the  little  uneasiness  creeping  over  him — proudly. 
There  was  a  little  commotion  now  in  the  crowd 
nearest  him,  all  heads  turned  one  way,  and  Jason 
saw  approaching  an  old  gentleman  on  crutches, 
a  man  with  a  thin  face  that  was  all  pure  intel 
lect  and  abnormally  keen;  that,  centuries  old  in 
thought,  had  yet  the  unquenchable  soul-fire  of 
youth.  He  stopped,  lifted  his  hat  in  response  to 
the  cheers  that  greeted  him,  and  for  a  single  in 
stant  over  that  thin  face  played,  like  the  winking 
eye  of  summer  lightning,  the  subtle  humor  that 
the  world  over  is  always  playing  hide-and-seek  in 
the  heart  of  the  Scot.  A  moment,  and  Jason 
halted  a  passing  boy  with  his  eye. 

"Who's  that  ole  feller?"  he  blurted. 

The  lad  looked  shocked,  for  he  could  not  know 
that  Jason  meant  not  a  particle  of  disrespect. 

"That  *ole  feller,' "  he  mimicked  indignantly  and 
with  scathing  sarcasm,  "is  the  president  of  this 
university";  and  he  hurried  on  while  Jason  miser 
ably  shrivelled  closer  to  the  steps.  After  that  he 
spoke  to  nobody,  and  nobody  spoke  to  him,  and 
he  lifted  his  eyes  only  to  the  gateway  through 
which  he  longed  for  John  Burnham  to  come.  But 
the  smile  of  the  old  president  haunted  him.  There 
sat  a  man  on  heights  no  more  to  be  scaled  by  him 
than  heaven,  and  yet  that  puzzling  smile  for  the 

179 


THE  HEART  OF  THE  BILLS 

blissful  ignorance,  in  the  young,  of  how  gladly  the 
old  would  give  up  their  crowns  in  exchange  for 
the  swift  young  feet  on  the  threshold — no  wonder 
the  boy  could  not  understand.  Through  that  gate 
dashed  presently  a  pair  of  proud,  high-headed 
black  horses — "star-gazers,"  as  the  Kentuckians 
call  them — with  a  rhythmic  beat  of  high-lifted  feet, 
and  the  boy's  eyes  narrowed  as  the  carriage  be 
hind  them  swept  by  him,  for  in  it  were  Colonel 
Pendleton  and  Gray,  with  eager  face  and  flashing 
eyes.  There  was  a  welcoming  shout  when  Gray 
leaped  out,  and  a  crowd  of  students  rushed  toward 
him  and  surrounded  him.  One  of  them  took  off 
his  hat,  lifted  both  hands  above  his  head,  and  then 
they  all  barked  out  a  series  of  barbaric  yells  with  a 
long  shout  of  Gray's  full  name  at  the  end,  while 
the  Blue-grass  lad  stood  among  them,  flushed  and 
embarrassed  but  not  at  all  displeased.  Again 
Jason's  brow  knitted  with  wonder,  for  he  could 
not  know  what  a  young  god  in  that  sternly  demo 
cratic  college  Gray  Pendleton,  aristocrat  though 
he  was,  had  made  himself,  and  he  shrank  deeper 
still  into  his  loneliness  and  turned  wistful  eyes 
again  to  the  gate.  Somebody  had  halted  in  front 
of  him,  and  he  looked  up  to  see  the  same  lad  of 
whom  he  had  just  asked  a  question. 

"And  that  young  feller,"  said  the  boy  in  the 
same  mimicking  tone,  "is  another  president — of 
the  sophomore  class  and  the  captain  of  the  foot 
ball  team." 

Lightning-like  and  belligerent,  Jason  sprang  to 
1 80 


THE  HEART  OF  THE  HILLS 

his  feet.  "Air  you  pokin'  fun  at  me?"  he  asked 
thickly  and  clenching  his  fists. 

Genuinely  amazed,  the  other  lad  stared  at  him 
a  moment,  smiled,  and  held  out  his  hand. 

"I  reckon  I  was,  but  you're  all  right.     Shake!" 

And  within  Jason,  won  by  the  frank  eyes  and 
winning  smile,  the  tumult  died  quickly,  and  he 
shook — gravely. 

"My  name's  Burns — Jack  Burns." 

"Mine's  Hawn — Jason  Hawn." 

The  other  turned  away  with  a  wave  of  his  hand. 

"See  you  again." 

"Shore,"  said  Jason,  and  then  his  breast  heaved 
and  his  heart  seemed  to  stop  quite  still.  Another 
pair  of  proud  horses  shot  between  the  stone  pillars, 
and  in  the  carriage  behind  them  was  Marjorie. 
The  boy  dropped  to  his  seat,  dropped  his  chin  in 
both  hands  as  though  to  keep  his  face  hidden,  but 
as  the  sound  of  her  coming  loudened  he  sim 
ply  could  not  help  lifting  his  head.  Erect,  happy, 
smiling,  the  girl  was  looking  straight  past  him,  and 
he  felt  like  one  of  the  yellow  grains  of  dust  about 
her  horses'  feet.  And  then  within  him  a  high, 
shrill  little  yell  rose  above  the  laughter  and  vocal 
hum  going  on  around  him — there  was  John  Burn- 
ham  coming  up  the  walk,  the  school-master,  John 
Burnham — and  Jason  sprang  to  meet  him.  Imme 
diately  Burnham's  searching  eyes  fell  upon  him, 
and  he  stopped — smiling,  measuring,  surprised. 
Could  this  keen-faced,  keen-eyed,  sinewy,  tall  lad 

181 


THE  HEART  OF  THE  HILLS 

be  the  faithful  little  chap  who  had  trudged  sturdily 
at  his  heels  so  many  days  in  the  mountains? 

"Well,  well,  well,"  he  said;  "why,  I  wouldn't 
have  known  you.  You  got  here  in  time,  didn't 
you?" 

"I  have  been  waitin'  fer  you,"  said  Jason. 
"Miss  Hilda  told  me  to  come  straight  to  you." 

"That's  right— how  is  she?" 

"She  ain't  well — she  works  too  hard." 

The  school-master  shook  his  head  with  grave 
concern. 

"I  know.  You've  been  lucky,  Jason.  She  is 
the  best  woman  on  earth." 

"I'd  lay  right  down  here  an'  die  fer  her  right 
now,"  said  the  lad  soberly.  So  would  John  Burn- 
ham,  and  he  loved  the  lad  for  saying  that. 

"She  said  you  was  the  best  man  on  earth — but 
I  knowed  that,"  the  lad  went  on  simply;  "an'  she 
told  me  to  tell  you  to  make  me  keep  out  o'  fights 
and  study  hard  and  behave." 

"All  right,  Jason,"  said  Burnham  with  a  smile. 
"Have  you  matriculated  yet?" 

Jason  was  not  to  be  caught  napping.  His  eyes 
gave  out  the  quick  light  of  humor,  but  his  face  was 
serious. 

"I  been  so  busy  waitin'  fer  you  that  I  reckon  I 
must  'a'  forgot  that." 

The  school-master  laughed. 

"Come  along." 

Through  the  thick  crowd  that  gave  way  re- 
182 


THE  HEART  OF  THE  HILLS 

spectfully  to  the  new  professor,  Jason  followed 
across  the  road  to  the  building  opposite,  and  up 
the  steps  into  a  room  where  he  told  his  name  and 
his  age,  and  the  name  of  his  father  and  mother, 
and  pulled  from  his  pocket  a  little  roll  of  dirty 
bills.  There  was  a  fee  of  five  dollars  for  "janitor." 
Jason  did  not  know  what  a  janitor  was,  but  John 
Burnham  nodded  when  he  looked  up  inquiringly 
and  Jason  asked  no  question.  There  was  another 
fee  for  "breakage,"  and  that  was  all,  but  the  latter 
item  was  too  much  for  Jason. 

"S'pose  I  don't  break  nothin',"  he  asked 
shrewdly,  "do  I  git  that  back?" 

Then  registrar  and  professor  laughed. 

"You  get  it  back." 

Down  they  went  again. 

"That's  a  mighty  big  word  fer  such  little  doin's," 
the  boy  said  soberly,  and  the  school-master  smiled. 

"You'll  find  just  that  all  through  college  now, 
Jason,  but  don't  wait  to  find  out  what  the  big 
word  means." 

"I  won't,"  said  Jason,  "next  time." 

Many  eyes  now  looked  on  the  lad  curiously 
when  he  followed  John  Burnham  back  through  the 
crowd  to  the  steps,  where  the  new  professor  paused. 

"I  passed  Mavis  on  the  road.  I  wonder  if  she 
has  come." 

"I  don't  know,"  said  Jason,  and  a  curious  some 
thing  in  his  tone  made  John  Burnham  look  at  him 
quickly — but  he  said  nothing. 

183 


THE  HEART  OP  THE  HILLS 

"Oh,  well,"  he  said  presently,  "she  knows  what 
to  do." 

A  few  minutes  later  the  two  were  alone  in  the 
new  professor's  recitation-room. 

"Have  you  seen  Marjorie  and  Gray?" 

The  lad  hesitated. 

"I  seed — I  saw  'em  when  they  come  in." 

"Gray  finishes  my  course  this  year.  He's  going 
to  be  a  civil  engineer." 

"So'm  I,"  said  Jason;  and  the  quick  shortness 
of  his  tone  again  made  John  Burnham  look  keenly 
at  him. 

"You  know  a  good  deal  about  geology  already 
— are  you  going  to  take  my  course  too?" 

"I  want  to  know  just  what  to  do  with  that  land 
o'  mine.  I  ain't  forgot  what  you  told  me — to  go 
away  and  git  an  education — and  when  I  come  back 
what  that  land  'ud  be  worth." 

"Yes,  but " 

The  lad's  face  had  paled  and  his  mouth  had  set. 

"I'm  goin'  to  git  it  back." 

Behind  them  the  door  had  opened,  and  Gray's 
spirited,  smiling  face  was  thrust  in. 

"Good  morning,  professor,"  he  cried,  and  then, 
seeing  Jason,  he  came  swiftly  in  with  his  hand 
outstretched. 

"Why,  how  are  you,  Jason?  Mavis  told  me 
yesterday  you  were  here.  I've  been  looking  for 
you.  Glad  to  see  you." 

Watching  both,  John  Burnham  saw  the  look  of 
184 


=^g^^^^^^^=^^==  === 

I  want  to  know  just  what  to  do  with  that  land  o'  mine, 
forgot  what  you  told  me  " 


I  ain't 


THE  HEART  OF  THE  HILLS 

surprise  in  Gray's  face  when  the  mountain  boy's 
whole  frame  stiffened  into  the  rigidity  of  steel, 
saw  the  haughty  uplifting  of  the  Blue-grass  boy's 
chin,  as  he  wheeled  to  go,  and  like  Gray,  he,  too, 
thought  Jason  had  never  forgotten  the  old  feud 
between  them.  For  a  moment  he  was  tempted  to 
caution  Jason  about  the  folly  of  it  all,  but  as  sud 
denly  he  changed  his  mind.  Outside  a  bugle  blew. 

"Go  on  down,  Jason,"  he  said  instead,  "and  fol 
low  the  crowd — that's  chapel — prayer-meeting," 
he  explained. 

At  the  foot  of  the  stairs  the  boy  mingled  with 
the  youthful  stream  pouring  through  the  wide 
doors  of  the  chapel  hall.  He  turned  to  the  left 
and  was  met  by  the  smiling  eyes  of  his  new 
acquaintance,  Burns,  who  waved  him  good-hu- 
moredly  away: 

"This  is  the  sophomore  corner — I  reckon  you 
belong  in  there." 

And  toward  the  centre  Jason  went  among  the 
green,  the  countrified,  the  uneasy,  and  the  un 
kempt.  The  other  half  of  the  hall  was  banked 
with  the  faces  of  young  girls — fresh  as  flowers — 
and  everywhere  were  youth  and  eagerness,  eager 
ness  and  youth.  The  members  of  the  faculty 
were  climbing  the  steps  to  a  platform  and  rang 
ing  themselves  about  the  old  gentleman  with  the 
crutches.  John  Burnham  entered,  and  the  vault 
above  rocked  with  the  same  barbaric  yells  that 
Jason  had  heard  given  Gray  Pendleton,  for  Burn- 


THE  HEART  OF  THE  HILLS 

ham  had  been  a  mighty  foot-ball  player  in  his 
college  days.  The  old  president  rose,  and  the 
tumult  sank  to  reverential  silence  while  a  silver 
tongue  sent  its  beautiful  diction  on  high  in  a 
prayer  for  the  bodies,  the  minds,  and  the  souls 
of  the  whole  buoyant  throng  in  the  race  for  which 
they  were  about  to  be  let  loose.  And  that  was 
just  what  the  tense  uplifted  faces  suggested  to 
John  Burnham — he  felt  in  them  the  spirit  of  the 
thoroughbred  at  the  post,  the  young  hound  strain 
ing  at  the  leash,  the  falcon  unhooded  for  flight, 
when,  at  the  president's  nod,  he  rose  to  his  feet 
to  speak  to  the  host  the  welcome  of  the  faculty 
within  these  college  walls  and  the  welcome  of  the 
Blue-grass  to  the  strangers  from  the  confines  of 
the  State — particularly  to  those  who  had  jour 
neyed  from  their  mountain  homes.  "These  young 
people  from  the  hills,"  he  said,  "for  their  own 
encouragement  and  for  all  patience  in  their  own 
struggle,  must  always  remember,  and  the  young 
men  and  women  of  the  Blue-grass,  for  tolerance 
and  a  better  understanding,  must  never  forget,  in 
what  darkness  and  for  how  long  their  sturdy  kins- 
people  had  lived,  how  they  were  just  wakening 
from  a  sleep  into  which,  not  of  their  own  fault, 
they  had  lapsed  but  little  after  the  Revolution; 
how  eagerly  they  had  strained  their  eyes  for  the 
first  glimmer  from  the  outside  world  that  had 
come  to  them,  and  how  earnestly  now  they  were 
fighting  toward  the  light.  So  isolated,  so  primitive 

1 86 


THE  HEART  OF  THE  HILLS 

were  they  only  a  short  while  ago  that  neighbor 
would  go  to  neighbor  asking  'Lend  us  fire/  and 
now  they  were  but  asking  of  the  outer  world, 
'Lend  us  fire.'  And  he  hoped  that  the  young 
men  and  women  from  those  dark  fastnesses  who 
had  come  there  to  light  their  torches  would  keep 
them  burning,  and  take  them  back  home  still 
sacredly  aflame,  so  that  in  the  hills  the  old  ques 
tion  with  its  new  meaning  could  never  again  be 
asked  in  vain." 

Jason's  eyes  had  never  wavered  from  the 
speaker's  face,  nor  had  Gray's,  but,  while  John 
Burnham  purposely  avoided  the  eyes  of  both, 
he  noted  here  and  there  the  sudden  squaring  of 
shoulders,  and  the  face  of  a  mountain  boy  or  girl 
lift  quickly  and  with  open-mouthed  interest  re 
main  fixed;  and  far  back  he  saw  Mavis,  wide- 
eyed  and  deep  in  some  new-born  dream,  and  he 
thought  he  saw  Marjorie  turn  at  the  end  to  look 
at  the  mountain  girl  as  though  to  smile  under 
standing  and  sympathy.  A  mental  tumult  still 
held  Jason  when  the  crowd  about  him  rose  to  go, 
and  he  kept  his  seat.  John  Burnham  had  been 
talking  about  Mavis  and  him,  and  maybe  about 
Marjorie  and  Gray,  and  he  had  a  vague  desire  to 
see  the  school-master  again.  Moreover,  a  doubt, 
at  once  welcome  and  disturbing  to  him,  had 
coursed  through  his  brain.  If  secret  meetings 
in  lanes  and  by-ways  were  going  on  between 
Mavis  and  Gray,  Gray  would  hardly  have  been 


THE  HEART  OF  THE  HILLS 

so  frank  in  saying  he  had  seen  Mavis  the  previous 
afternoon,  for  Gray  must  know  that  Jason  knew 
there  had  been  no  meeting  at  Steve  Hawn's  house. 
Perhaps  Gray  had  overtaken  her  in  the  lane  quite 
by  accident,  and  the  boy  was  bothered  and  felt 
rather  foolish  and  ashamed  when,  seeing  John 
Burnham  still  busy  on  the  platform,  he  rose  to 
leave. 

On  the  steps  more  confusion  awaited  him.  A 
group  of  girls  was  standing  to  one  side  of  them, 
and  he  turned  hurriedly  the  other  way.  Light 
footsteps  followed  him,  and  a  voice  called: 

"Oh,  Jason!" 

His  blood  rushed,  and  he  turned  dizzily,  for 
he  knew  it  was  Marjorie.  In  her  frank  eyes  was 
a  merry  smile  instead  of  the  tear  that  had  fixed 
them  in  his  memory,  but  the  clasp  of  her  hand 
was  the  same. 

"Why,  I  didn't  know  you  yesterday — did  I? 
No  wonder.  Why,  I  wouldn't  have  known  you 
now  if  I  hadn't  been  looking  for  you.  Mavis  told 
me  you'd  come.  Dear  me,  what  a  big  man  you 
are.  Professor  Burnham  told  me  all  about  you, 
and  I've  been  so  proud.  Why,  I  came  near  writ 
ing  to  you  several  times.  I'm  expecting  you  to 
lead  your  class  here,  and  " — she  took  in  with  frank 
admiration  his  height  and  the  breadth  of  his 
shoulders — "Gray  will  want  you,  maybe,  for  the 
foot-ball  team." 

The  crowds  of  girls  near  by  were  boring  him 
1 88 


THE  HEART  OF  THE  HILLS 

into  the  very  ground  with  their  eyes.  His  feet 
and  his  hands  had  grown  to  enormous  propor 
tions  and  seemed  suddenly  to  belong  to  some 
body  else.  He  felt  like  an  ant  in  a  grain-hopper, 
or  as  though  he  were  deep  under  water  in  a  long 
dive  and  must  in  a  moment  actually  gasp  for 
breath.  And,  remembering  St.  Hilda,  he  did 
manage  to  get  his  hat  off,  but  he  was  speechless. 
Marjorie  paused,  the  smile  did  not  leave  her 
eyes,  but  it  turned  serious,  and  she  lowered  her 
voice  a  little. 

"Did  you  keep  your  promise,  Jason?" 

Then  the  boy  found  himself,  and  as  he  had  said 
before,  that  winter  dusk,  he  said  now  soberly: 

"I  give  you  my  hand." 

And,  as  before,  taking  him  literally,  Marjorie 
again  stretched  out  her  hand. 

"I'm  so  glad." 

Once  more  the  bugle  sent  its  mellow  summons 
through  the  air. 

"And  you  are  coming  to  our  house  some  Satur 
day  night  to  go  coon-hunting — good-by." 

Jason  turned  weakly  away,  and  all  the  rest  of 
the  day  he  felt  dazed.  He  did  not  want  to  see 
Mavis  or  Gray  or  Marjorie  again,  or  even  John 
Burnham.  So  he  started  back  home  afoot,  and 
all  the  way  he  kept  to  the  fields  through  fear  that 
some  one  of  them  might  overtake  him  on  the 
road,  for  he  wanted  to  be  alone.  And  those  fields 
looked  more  friendly  now  than  they  had  looked  at 

189 


THE  HEART  OP  THE  HILLS 

dawn,  and  his  heart  grew  lighter  with  every  step. 
Now  and  then  a  rabbit  leaped  from  the  grass  be 
fore  him,  or  a  squirrel  whisked  up  the  rattling 
bark  of  a  hickory-tree.  A  sparrow  trilled  from 
the  swaying  top  of  a  purple  ironwood,  and  from 
grass,  and  fence-rail,  and  awing,  meadow  larks 
were  fluting  everywhere,  but  the  song  of  no  wood- 
thrush  reached  his  waiting  ear.  Over  and  over 
again  his  brain  reviewed  every  incident  of  the 
day,  only  to  end  each  time  with  Marjorie's  voice, 
her  smile  with  its  new  quality  of  mischief,  and  the 
touch  of  her  hand.  She  had  not  forgotten — that 
was  the  thrill  of  it  all — and  she  had  even  asked 
if  he  had  kept  his  promise  to  her.  And  at  that 
thought  his  soul  darkened,  for  the  day  would  come 
when  he  must  ask  to  be  absolved  of  one  part  of 
that  promise,  as  on  that  day  he  must  be  up 
and  on  his  dead  father's  business.  And  he  won 
dered  what,  when  he  told  her,  she  would  say.  It 
was  curious,  but  the  sense  of  the  crime  involved 
was  naught,  as  was  the  possible  effect  of  it  on 
his  college  career — it  was  only  what  that  girl 
would  say.  But  the  day  might  still  be  long  off, 
and  he  had  so  schooled  himself  to  throwing  aside 
the  old  deep,  sinister  purpose  that  he  threw  it  off 
now  and  gave  himself  up  to  the  bubbling  relief 
that  had  come  to  him.  That  meeting  in  the  lane 
must  have  been  chance,  John  Burnham  was  kind, 
and  Marjorie  had  not  forgotten.  He  was  not 
alone  in  the  world,  nor  was  he  even  lonely,  for 

190 


THE  HEART  OF  THE  HILLS 

everywhere  that  day  he  had  found  a  hand  stretched 
out  to  help  him. 

Mavis  was  sitting  on  the  porch  when  he  walked 
through  the  gate,  and  the  moment  she  saw  his 
face  a  glad  light  shone  in  her  own,  for  it  was  the 
old  Jason  coming  back  to  her: 

"Mavie,"  he  said  huskily,  "I  reckon  I'm  the 
biggest  fool  this  side  o'  hell,  whar  I  reckon  I 
ought  to  be." 

Mavis  asked  no  question,  made  no  answer. 
She  merely  looked  steadily  at  him  for  a  moment, 
and  then,  brushing  quickly  at  her  eyes,  she  rose 
and  turned  into  the  house.  The  sun  gave  way 
to  darkness,  but  it  kept  on  shining  in  Jason's 
heart,  and  when  at  bedtime  he  stood  again  on 
the  porch,  his  gratitude  went  up  to  the  very  stars. 
He  heard  Mavis  behind  him,  but  he  did  not  turn, 
for  all  he  had  to  say  he  had  said,  and  the  break 
in  his  reserve  was  over. 

"I'm  glad  you  come  back,  Jasie,"  was  all  she 
said,  shyly,  for  she  understood,  and  then  she 
added  the  little  phrase  that  is  not  often  used  in 
the  mountain  world : 

"Good-night." 

From  St.  Hilda,  Jason,  too,  had  learned  that 
phrase,  and  he  spoke  it  with  a  gruffness  that  made 
the  girl  smile: 

"Good-night,  Mavie." 


191 


XIX 

TASON  drew  the  top  bed  in  a  bare-walled,  bare- 
**  floored  room  with  two  other  boys,  as  green  and 
countrified  as  was  he,  and  he  took  turns  with  them 
making  up  those  beds,  carrying  water  for  the  one 
tin  basin,  and  sweeping  up  the  floor  with  the  broom 
that  stood  in  the  corner  behind  it.  But  even  then 
the  stark  simplicity  of  his  life  was  a  luxury.  His 
meals  cost  him  three  dollars  a  week,  and  that  most 
serious  item  began  to  worry  him,  but  not  for  long. 
Within  two  weeks  he  was  meeting  a  part  of  that 
outlay  by  delivering  the  morning  daily  paper  of 
the  town.  This  meant  getting  up  at  half  past 
three  in  the  morning,  after  a  sleep  of  five  hours  and 
a  half,  but  if  this  should  begin  to  wear  on  him,  he 
would  simply  go  earlier  to  bed;  there  was  no  sign 
of  wear  and  tear,  however,  for  the  boy  was  as  tough 
as  a  bolt-proof  black  gum-tree  back  in  the  hills,  his 
capacity  for  work  was  prodigious,  and  the  early 
rising  hour  but  lengthened  the  range  of  each  day's 
activities.  Indeed  Jason  missed  nothing  and  noth 
ing  missed  him.  His  novitiate  passed  quickly,  and 
while  his  fund  for  "breakage"  was  almost  gone,  he 
had,  without  knowing  it,  drawn  no  little  attention 
to  himself.  He  had  wandered  innocently  into 
"Heaven" — the  seniors'  hall — a  satanic  offence 

192 


THE  HEART  OF  THE  HILLS 

for  a  freshman,  and  he  had  been  stretched  over  a 
chair,  "strapped,"  and  thrown  out.  But  at  dawn 
next  morning  he  was  waiting  at  the  entrance  and 
when  four  seniors  appeared  he  tackled  them  all 
valiantly.  Three  held  him  while  the  fourth  went 
for  a  pair  of  scissors,  for  thus  far  Jason  had  escaped 
the  tonsorial  betterment  that  had  been  inflicted  on 
most  of  his  classmates.  The  boy  stood  still,  but  in 
a  relaxed  moment  of  vigilance  he  tore  loose  just  as 
the  scissors  appeared,  and  fled  for  the  building  op 
posite.  There  he  turned  with  his  back  to  the  wall. 

"When  I  want  my  hair  cut,  I'll  git  my  mammy 
to  do  it  or  pay  fer  it  myself,"  he  said  quietly,  but 
his  face  was  white.  When  they  rushed  on,  he 
thrust  his  hand  into  his  shirt  and  pulled  it  out  with 
a  mighty  oath  of  helplessness — he  had  forgotten 
his  knife.  They  cut  his  hair,  but  it  cost  them  two 
bloody  noses  and  one  black  eye.  At  the  flag-rush 
later  he  did  not  forget.  The  sophomores  had  en 
ticed  the  freshmen  into  the  gymnasium,  stripped 
them  of  their  clothes,  and  carried  them  away, 
whereat  the  freshmen  got  into  the  locker-rooms 
of  the  girls,  and  a  few  moments  later  rushed  from 
the  gymnasium  in  bloomers  to  find  the  sophomores 
crowded  about  the  base  of  the  pole,  one  of  them 
with  an  axe  in  his  hand,  and  Jason  at  the  top  with 
his  hand  again  in  his  shirt. 

"Chop  away!"  he  was  shouting,  "but  I'll  git 
some  o'  ye  when  this  pole  comes  down."  Above 
the  din  rose  John  Burnham's  voice,  stern  and 

193 


THE  HEART  OF  THE  HILLS 

angry,  calling  Jason's  name.  The  student  with 
the  axe  had  halted  at  the  unmistakable  sincerity  of 
the  boy's  threat. 

"Jason,"  called  Burnham  again,  for  he  knew 
what  the  boy  meant,  and  the  lad  tossed  knife  and 
scabbard  over  the  heads  of  the  crowd  to  the  grass, 
and  slid  down  the  pole.  And  in  the  fight  that  fol 
lowed,  the  mountain  boy  fought  with  a  calm,  half- 
smiling  ferocity  that  made  the  wavering  freshmen 
instinctively  surge  behind  him  as  a  leader,  and  the 
onlooking  foot-ball  coach  quickly  mark  him  for 
his  own.  Even  at  the  first  foot-ball  "rally,"  where 
he  learned  the  college  yells,  Jason  had  been  singled 
out,  for  the  mountaineer  measures  distance  by  the 
carry  of  his  voice  and  with  a  "whoop  an'  a  holler" 
the  boy  could  cover  a  mile.  Above  the  din,  Ja 
son's  clear  cry  was,  so  to  speak,  like  a  cracker  on 
the  whip  of  the  cheer,  and  the  "yell-master,"  a 
swaying  figure  of  frenzied  enthusiasm,  caught  his 
eye  in  time,  nodded  approvingly,  and  saw  in  him  a 
possible  yell-leader  for  the  freshman  class.  After 
the  rally  the  piano  was  rolled  joyously  to  the  centre 
of  the  gymnasium  and  a  pale-faced  lad  began  to 
thump  it  vigorously,  much  to  Jason's  disapproval, 
for  he  could  not  understand  how  a  boy  could,  or 
would,  play  anything  but  a  banjo  or  a  fiddle. 
Then,  with  the  accompaniment  of  a  snare-drum, 
there  was  a  merry,  informal  dance,  at  which  Jason 
and  Mavis  looked  yearningly  on.  And,  as  that 
night  long  ago  in  the  mountains,  Gray  and  Mar- 

194 


THE  HEART  OF  THE  HILLS 

jorie  floated  like  feathers  past  them,  and  over 
Gray's  shoulder  the  girl's  eyes  caught  Jason's  fixed 
on  her,  and  Mavis's  fixed  on  Gray;  so  on  the  next 
round  she  stopped  a  moment  near  them. 

"I'm  going  to  teach  you  to  dance,  Jason,"  she 
said,  as  though  she  were  tossing  a  gauntlet  to 
somebody,  "and  Gray  can  teach  Mavis." 

"Sure,"  laughed  Gray,  and  off  they  whirled 
again. 

The  eyes  of  the  two  mountaineers  met,  and  they 
might  have  been  back  in  their  childhood  again, 
standing  on  the  sunny  river-bank  and  waiting  for 
Gray  and  Marjorie  to  pass,  for  what  their  tongues 
said  then  their  eyes  said  now: 

"I  seed  you  a-lookin'  at  him." 

"'Tain't  so — I  seed  you  a-lookin'  at  her." 

And  it  was  true  now  as  it  was  then,  and  then  as 
now  both  knew  it  and  both  flushed.  Jason  turned 
abruptly  away,  for  he  knew  more  of  Mavis's  secret 
than  she  of  his,  and  it  was  partly  for  that  reason 
that  he  had  not  yet  opened  his  lips  to  her.  He  had 
seen  no  consciousness  in  Gray's  face,  he  resented 
the  fact,  somehow,  that  there  was  none,  and  his 
lulled  suspicions  began  to  stir  again  within  him. 
In  Marjorie's  face  he  had  missed  what  Mavis  had 
caught,  a  fleeting  spirit  of  mischief,  which  stung 
the  mountain  girl  with  jealousy  and  a  quick  fierce 
desire  to  protect  Jason,  just  as  Jason,  with  the 
same  motive,  was  making  up  his  mind  again  to 
keep  a  close  eye  on  Gray  Pendleton.  As  for  Mar- 

195 


THE  HEART  OF  THE  HILLS 

jorie,  she,  too,  knew  more  of  Mavis's  secret  than 
Mavis  knew  of  hers,  and  of  the  four,  indeed,  she 
was  by  far  the  wisest.  During  the  years  that 
Jason  was  in  the  hills  she  had  read  as  on  an  open 
page  the  meaning  of  the  mountain  girl's  flush  at 
any  unexpected  appearance  of  Gray,  the  dumb 
adoration  for  him  in  her  dark  eyes,  and  more  than 
once,  riding  in  the  woods,  she  had  come  upon 
Mavis,  seated  at  the  foot  of  an  oak,  screened  by  a 
clump  of  elder-bushes  and  patiently  waiting,  as 
Marjorie  knew,  to  watch  Gray  gallop  by.  She 
even  knew  how  unconsciously  Gray  had  been 
drawn  by  all  this  toward  Mavis,  but  she  had  not 
bothered  her  head  to  think  how  much  he  was 
drawn  until  just  before  the  opening  of  the  college 
year,  for,  from  the  other  side  of  the  hill,  she,  too, 
had  witnessed  the  meeting  in  the  lane  that  Jason 
had  seen,  and  had  wondered  about  it  just  as  much, 
though  she,  too,  had  kept  still.  That  the  two 
boys  knew  so  little,  that  the  two  girls  knew  so 
much,  and  that  each  girl  resented  the  other's  in 
terest  in  her  own  cousin,  was  merely  a  distinction 
of  sex,  as  was  the  fact  that  matters  would  have 
to  be  made  very  clear  before  Jason  or  Gray  could 
see  and  understand.  And  for  them  matters  were 
to  become  clearer,  at  least — very  soon. 


196 


XX 

ALREADY  the  coach  had  asked  Jason  to  try 
•*•  ^  foot-ball,  but  the  boy  had  kept  away  from  the 
field,  for  the  truth  was  that  he  had  but  one  suit  of 
clothes  and  he  couldn't  afford  to  have  them  soiled 
and  torn.  Gray  suspected  this,  and  told  the  coach, 
who  explained  to  Jason  that  practice  clothes  would 
be  furnished  him,  but  still  the  boy  did  not  come 
until  one  day  when,  out  of  curiosity,  he  wandered 
over  to  the  field  to  see  what  the  game  was  like. 
Soon  his  eyes  brightened,  his  lips  parted,  and  his 
face  grew  tense  as  the  players  swayed,  clenched 
struggling,  fell  in  a  heap,  and  leaped  to  their  feet 
again.  And  everywhere  he  saw  Gray's  yellow 
head  darting  among  them  like  a  sun-ball,  and  he 
began  to  wonder  if  he  could  not  outrun  and  out- 
wrestle  his  old  enemy.  He  began  to  fidget  in  his 
seat  and  presently  he  could  stand  it  no  longer,  and 
he  ran  out  into  the  field  and  touched  the  coach  on 
the  shoulder. 

"Can  I  git  them  clothes  now?" 

The  coach  looked  at  his  excited  face,  nodded 
with  a  smile,  and  pointed  to  the  gymnasium,  and 
Jason  was  off  in  a  run. 

The  matter  was  settled  in  the  thrill  and  struggle 
of  that  one  practice  game,  and  right  away  Jason 

197 


THE  HEART  OF  THE  HILLS 

showed  extraordinary  aptitude,  for  he  was  quick, 
fleet,  and  strong,  and  the  generalship  and  tactics 
of  the  game  fascinated  him  from  the  start.  And 
when  he  discovered  that  the  training-table  meant 
a  savings-bank  for  him,  he  counted  his  money, 
gave  up  the  morning  papers  without  hesitation  or 
doubt,  and  started  in  for  the  team.  Thus  he  and 
Gray  were  brought  violently  together  on  the  field, 
for  within  two  weeks  Jason  was  on  the  second 
team,  but  the  chasm  between  them  did  not  close. 
Gray  treated  the  mountain  boy  with  a  sort  of  curt 
courtesy,  and  while  Jason  tackled  him,  fell  upon 
him  with  a  savage  thrill,  and  sometimes  wanted  to 
keep  on  tightening  his  wiry  arms  and  throttling 
him,  the  mountain  boy  could  discover  no  personal 
feeling  whatever  against  him  in  return,  and  he 
was  mystified.  With  the  ingrained  suspicion  of 
the  mountaineer  toward  an  enemy,  he  supposed 
Gray  had  some  cunning  purpose.  As  captain, 
Gray  had  been  bound,  Jason  knew,  to  put  him  on 
the  second  team,  but  as  day  after  day  went  by 
and  the  magic  word  that  he  longed  for  went  un 
said,  the  boy  began  to  believe  that  the  sinister  pur 
pose  of  Gray's  concealment  was,  without  evident 
prejudice,  to  keep  him  off  the  college  team.  The 
ball  was  about  to  be  snapped  back  on  Gray's  side, 
and  Gray  had  given  him  one  careless,  indifferent 
glance  over  the  bent  backs  of  the  guards,  when 
Jason  came  to  this  conclusion,  and  his  heart  began 
to  pound  with  rage.  There  was  the  shock  of 

198 


THE  HEART  OF  THE  HILLS 

bodies,  the  ball  disappeared  from  his  sight,  he  saw 
Gray's  yellow  head  dart  three  times,  each  time  a 
different  way,  and  then  it  flashed  down  the  side 
line  with  a  clear  field  for  the  goal.  With  a  bound 
Jason  was  after  him,  and  he  knew  that  even  if 
Gray  had  wings,  he  would  catch  him.  With  a 
flying  leap  he  hurled  himself  on  the  speeding  figure 
in  front  of  him,  he  heard  Gray's  breath  go  out  in  a 
quick  gasp  under  the  fierce  lock  of  his  arms,  and, 
as  they  crashed  to  the  ground,  Jason  for  one  savage 
moment  wanted  to  use  his  teeth  on  the  back  of  the 
sunburnt  neck  under  him,  but  he  sprang  to  his 
feet,  fists  clenched  and  ready  for  the  fight.  With 
another  gasp  Gray,  too,  sprang  lightly  up. 

"Good!  "he  said  heartily. 

No  mortal  fist  could  have  laid  Jason  quite  so 
low  as  that  one  word.  The  coach's  whistle  blew 
and  Gray  added  carelessly:  "Come  around,  Hawn, 
to  the  training-table  to-night." 

No  mortal  command  could  have  filled  him  with 
so  much  shame,  and  Jason  stood  stock-still  and 
speechless.  Then,  fumbling  for  an  instant  at  his 
shirt  collar  as  though  he  were  choking,  he  walked 
swiftly  away.  As  he  passed  the  benches  he  saw 
Mavis  and  Marjorie,  who  had  been  watching  the 
practice.  Apparently  Mavis  had  started  out  into 
the  field,  and  Marjorie,  bewildered  by  her  indig 
nant  outcry,  had  risen  to  follow  her;  and  Jason, 
when  he  met  the  accusing  fire  of  his  cousin's  eyes, 
knew  that  she  alone,  on  the  field,  had  understood 

199 


THE  HEART  OF  THE  HILLS 

it  all,  that  she  had  started  with  the  impulse  of 
protecting  Gray,  and  his  shame  went  deeper  still. 
He  did  not  go  to  the  training-table  that  night, 
and  the  moonlight  found  him  under  the  old  wil 
lows  wondering  and  brooding,  as  he  had  been — 
long  and  hard.  Gray  was  too  much  for  him,  and 
the  mountain  boy  had  not  been  able  to  solve  the 
mystery  of  the  Blue-grass  boy's  power  over  his 
fellows,  for  the  social  complexity  of  things  had  un 
ravelled  very  slowly  for  Jason.  He  saw  that  each 
county  had  brought  its  local  patriotism  to  college 
and  had  its  county  club.  There  were  too  few  stu 
dents  from  the  hills  and  a  sectional  club  was  form 
ing,  "The  Mountain  Club,"  into  which  Jason 
naturally  had  gone;  but  broadly  the  students  were 
divided  into  "frat"  men  and  "non-frat"  men, 
chiefly  along  social  lines,  and  there  were  literary 
clubs  of  which  the  watchword  was  merit  and 
nothing  else.  In  all  these  sectional  cliques  from 
the  Purchase,  Pennyroyal,  and  Peavine,  as  the 
western  border  of  the  State,  the  southern  border, 
and  the  eastern  border  of  hills  were  called;  indeed, 
in  all  the  sections  except  the  Bear-grass,  where 
was  the  largest  town  and  where  the  greatest  wealth 
of  the  State  was  concentrated,  he  found  a  wide 
spread,  subconscious,  home-nursed  resentment 
brought  to  that  college  against  the  lordly  Blue- 
grass.  In  the  social  life  of  the  college  he  found 
that  resentment  rarely  if  ever  voiced,  but  al 
ways  tirelessly  at  work.  He  was  not  surprised 

200 


THE  HEART  OF  THE  HILLS 

then  to  discover  that  in  the  history  of  the  college, 
Gray  Pendleton  was  the  first  plainsman,  the  first 
aristocrat,  who  had  ever  been  captain  of  the  team 
and  the  president  of  his  class.  He  began  to  un 
derstand  now,  for  he  could  feel  the  tendrils  of  the 
boy's  magnetic  personality  enclosing  even  him,  and 
by  and  by  he  could  stand  it  no  longer,  and  he  went 
to  Gray. 

"I  wanted  to  kill  you  that  day." 

Gray  smiled. 

"I  knew  it,"  he  said  quietly. 

"Then  why " 

"We  were  playing  foot-ball.  Almost  anybody 
can  lose  his  head  entirely — but  you  didn't.  That's 
why  I  didn't  say  anything  to  you  afterward. 
That's  why  you'll  be  captain  of  the  team  after 
I'm  gone." 

Again  Jason  choked,  and  again  he  turned  speech 
less  away,  and  then  and  there  was  born  within  him 
an  idolatry  for  Gray  that  was  carefully  locked  in 
his  own  breast,  for  your  mountaineer  openly  wor 
ships,  and  then  but  shyly,  the  Almighty  alone. 
Jason  no  longer  wondered  about  the  attitude  of 
faculty  and  students  of  both  sexes  toward  Gray, 
no  longer  at  Mavis,  but  at  Marjorie  he  kept  on 
wondering  mightily,  for  she  alone  seemed  the  one 
exception  to  the  general  rule.  Like  everybody 
else,  Jason  knew  the  parental  purpose  where  those 
two  were  concerned,  and  he  began  to  laugh  at  the 
daring  presumptions  of  his  own  past  dreams  and 

20 1 


THE  HEART  OF  THE  HILLS 

to  worship  now  only  from  afar.  But  he  could  not 
know  the  effect  of  that  parental  purpose  on  that 
wilful,  high-strung  young  person,  the  pique  that 
Gray's  frank  interest  in  Mavis  brought  to  life 
within  her,  and  he  was  not  yet  far  enough  along 
in  the  classics  to  suspect  that  Marjorie  might 
weary  of  hearing  Aristides  called  the  Just.  Nor 
could  he  know  the  spirit  of  coquetry  that  lurked 
deep  behind  her  serious  eyes,  and  was  for  that 
reason  the  more  dangerously  effective. 

He  only  began  to  notice  one  morning,  after  the 
foot-ball  incident,  that  Marjorie  was  beginning 
to  notice  him;  that,  worshipped  now  only  on  the 
horizon,  his  star  seemed  to  be  drawing  a  little 
nearer.  A  passing  lecturer  had  told  Jason  much 
of  himself  and  his  people  that  morning.  The 
mountain  people,  said  the  speaker,  still  lived  like 
the  pioneer  forefathers  of  the  rest  of  the  State. 
Indeed  they  were  "our  contemporary  ancestors"; 
so  that,  sociologically  speaking,  Jason,  young  as 
he  was,  was  the  ancestor  of  all  around  him.  The 
thought  made  him  grin  and,  looking  up,  he  caught 
the  mischievous  eyes  of  Marjorie,  who  later  seemed 
to  be  waiting  for  him  on  the  steps : 

"Good-morning,  grandfather,"  she  said  de 
murely,  and  went  rapidly  on  her  way. 


202 


XXI 

IX/TEANWHILE  that  political  storm  was  raging 
•*••••  and  Jason  got  at  the  heart  of  it  through  his 
morning  paper  and  John  Burnham.  He  knew 
that  at  home  Republicans  ran  against  Republicans 
for  all  offices,  and  now  he  learned  that  his  own 
mountains  were  the  Gibraltar  of  that  party,  and 
that  the  line  of  its  fortifications  ran  from  the  Big 
Sandy,  three  hundred  miles  by  public  roads,  to 
the  line  of  Tennessee.  When  free  silver  had  shat 
tered  the  Democratic  ranks  three  years  before,  the 
mountaineers  had  leaped  forth  and  unfurled  the 
Republican  flag  over  the  State  for  the  first  time 
since  the  Civil  War.  Ballots  were  falsified — that 
was  the  Democratic  cry,  and  that  was  the  Demo 
cratic  excuse  for  that  election  law  which  had  been 
forced  through  the  Senate,  whipped  through  the 
lower  house  with  the  party  lash,  and  passed  over 
the  veto  of  the  Republican  governor  by  the  new 
Democratic  leader — the  bold,  cool,  crafty,  silent 
autocrat.  From  bombastic  orators  Jason  learned 
that  a  fair  ballot  was  the  bulwark  of  freedom,  that 
some  God-given  bill  of  rights  had  been  smashed, 
and  the  very  altar  of  liberty  desecrated.  And 
when  John  Burnham  explained  how  the  autocrat's 
triumvirate  could  at  will  appoint  and  remove 

203 


THE  HEART  OF  THE  HILLS 

officers  of  election,  canvass  returns,  and  certify 
and  determine  results,  he  could  understand  how 
the  "atrocious  measure,"  as  the  great  editor  of  the 
State  called  it,  "was  a  ready  chariot  to  the  gov 
ernor's  chair."  And  in  the  summer  convention 
the  spirit  behind  the  measure  had  started  for  that 
goal  in  just  that  way,  like  a  scythe-bearing  chariot 
of  ancient  days,  but  cutting  down  friend  as  well  as 
foe.  Straightway,  Democrats  long  in  line  for  hon 
ors,  and  gray  in  the  councils  of  the  party,  bolted; 
the  rural  press  bolted;  and  Jason  heard  one  bolter 
thus  cry  his  fealty  and  his  faithlessness:  "As 
charged,  I  do  stand  ready  to  vote  for  a  yellow  dog, 
if  he  be  the  regular  nominee,  but  lower  than  that 
you  shall  not  drag  me." 

The  autocrat's  retort  was  courteous. 

"You  have  a  brother  in  the  penitentiary." 

"No,"  was  the  answer,  "but  your  brothers  have 
a  brother  who  ought  to  be." 

The  pulpit  thundered.  Half  a  million  Ken- 
tuckians,  "professing  Christians  and  temperance 
advocates,"  repudiated  the  autocrat's  claim  to 
support.  A  new  convention  was  the  cry,  and  the 
wheel-horse  of  the  party,  an  ex-Confederate,  ex- 
governor,  and  aristocrat,  answered  that  cry.  The 
leadership  of  the  Democratic  bolters  he  took  as  a 
"sacred  duty" — took  it  with  the  gentle  statement 
that  the  man  who  tampers  with  the  rights  of  the 
humblest  citizen  is  worse  than  the  assassin,  and 
should  be  streaked  with  a  felon's  stripes,  and 

204 


THE  HEART  OF  THE  HILLS 

suffered  to  speak  only  through  barred  doors. 
From  the  same  tongue,  Jason  heard  with  puckered 
brow  that  the  honored  and  honest  yeomanry  of 
the  commonwealth,  through  coalition  by  judge 
and  politician,  would  be  hoodwinked  by  the  leger 
demain  of  ballot-juggling  magicians;  but  he  did 
understand  when  he  heard  this  yeomanry  called 
brave,  adventurous  self-gods  of  creation,  slow  to 
anger  and  patient  with  wrongs,  but  when  once 
stirred,  let  the  man  who  had  done  the  wrong — 
beware!  Long  ago  Jason  had  heard  the  Republi 
can  chieftain  who  was  to  be  pitted  against  such  a 
foe  characterized  as  "a  plain,  unknown  man,  a 
hill-billy  from  the  Pennyroyal,  and  the  nominee 
because  there  was  no  opposition  and  no  hope." 
But  hope  was  running  high  now,  and  now  with  the 
aristocrat,  the  autocrat,  and  the  plebeian  from 
the  Pennyroyal — whose  slogan  was  the  repeal  of 
the  autocrat's  election  law — the  tricornered  fight 
was  on. 

On  a  hot  day  in  the  star  county  of  the  star 
district,  the  autocrat,  like  Caesar,  had  a  fainting 
fit  and  left  the  Democrats,  explaining  for  the  rest 
of  the  campaign  that  Republican  eyes  had  seen  a 
big  dirk  under  his  coat;  and  Jason  never  rested 
until  with  his  own  eyes  he  had  seen  the  man  who 
had  begun  to  possess  his  brain  like  an  evil  dream. 
And  he  did  see  him  and  heard  him  defend  his  law 
as  better  than  the  old  one,  and  declare  that  never 
again  could  the  Democrats  steal  the  State  with 

205 


THE  HEART  OF  THE  HILLS 

mountain  votes — heard  him  confidently  leave  to 
the  common  people  to  decide  whether  imperialism 
should  replace  democracy,  trusts  destroy  the  busi 
ness  of  man  with  man,  and  whether  the  big  rail 
road  of  the  State  was  the  servant  or  the  master  of 
the  people.  He  heard  a  senator  from  the  national 
capital,  whose  fortunes  were  linked  with  the  auto 
crat's,  declare  that  leader  as  the  most  maligned 
figure  in  American  politics,  and  that  he  was  with 
out  a  blemish  or  vice  on  his  private  or  public  life, 
but,  unlike  Pontius  Pilate,  Jason  never  thought 
to  ask  himself  what  was  truth,  for,  in  spite  of  the 
mountaineer's  Blue-grass  allies,  the  lad  had  come 
to  believe  that  there  was  a  State  conspiracy  to 
rob  his  own  people  of  their  rights.  This  autocrat 
was  the  head  and  front  of  that  conspiracy;  while 
he  spoke  the  boy's  hatred  grew  with  every  word, 
and  turned  personal,  so  that  at  the  close  of  the 
speech  he  moved  near  the  man  with  a  fierce  desire 
to  fly  at  his  throat  then  and  there.  The  boy  even 
caught  one  sweeping  look — cool,  fearless,  insolent, 
scorning — the  look  the  man  had  for  his  enemies — 
and  he  was  left  with  swimming  head  and  trem 
bling  knees.  Then  the  great  Nebraskan  came, 
and  Jason  heard  him  tell  the  people  to  vote  against 
him  for  President  if  they  pleased — but  to  stand 
by  Democracy;  and  in  his  paper  next  morning 
Jason  saw  a  cartoon  of  the  autocrat  driving  the 
great  editor  and  the  Nebraskan  on  a  race-track, 
hitched  together,  but  pulling  like  oxen  apart.  And 

206 


THE  HEART  OF  THE  HILLS 

through  the  whole  campaign  he  heard  the  one  Re 
publican  cry  ringing  like  a  bell  through  the  State: 
"Elect  the  ticket  by  a  majority  that  cant  be 
counted  out." 

Thus  the  storm  went  on,  the  Republicans  cry 
ing  for  a  free  ballot  and  a  fair  count,  flaunting 
on  a  banner  the  picture  of  a  man  stuffing  a  ballot- 
box  and  two  men  with  shot-guns  playfully  inter 
rupting  the  performance,  and  hammering  into  the 
head  of  the  State  that  no  man  could  be  trusted 
with  unlimited  power  over  the  suffrage  of  a  free 
people.  Any  ex-Confederate  who  was  for  the 
autocrat,  any  repentant  bolter  that  swung  away 
from  the  aristocrat,  any  negro  that  was  against 
the  man  from  the  Pennyroyal,  was  lifted  by  the 
beneficiary  to  be  looked  on  by  the  public  eye. 
The  autocrat  would  cut  down  a  Republican  ma 
jority  by  contesting  votes  and  throw  the  matter 
into  the  hands  of  the  legislature — that  was  the 
Republican  prophecy  and  the  Republican  fear. 
Manufacturers,  merchants,  and  ministers  pleaded 
for  a  fair  election.  An  anti-autocratic  grip  be 
came  prevalent  in  the  hills.  The  Hawns  and 
Honeycutts  sent  word  that  they  had  buried  the 
feud  for  a  while  and  would  fight  like  brothers  for 
their  rights,  and  from  more  than  one  mountain 
county  came  the  homely  threat  that  if  those 
rights  were  denied,  there  would  somewhere  be  "a 
mighty  shovellin'  of  dirt."  And  so  to  the  last  min 
ute  the  fight  went  on. 

207 


THE  HEART  OF  THE  HILLS 

The  boy's  head  buzzed  and  ached  with  the  mul 
tifarious  interests  that  filled  it,  but  for  all  that  the 
autumn  was  all  gold  for  him  and  with  both  hands 
he  gathered  it  in.  Sometimes  he  would  go  home 
with  Gray  for  Sunday.  With  Colonel  Pendleton 
for  master,  he  was  initiated  into  exercises  with  dirk 
and  fencing-foil,  for  not  yet  was  the  boxing-glove 
considered  meet,  by  that  still  old-fashioned  court 
ier,  for  the  hand  of  a  gentleman.  Sometimes  he 
would  spend  Sunday  with  John  Burnham,  and 
wander  with  him  through  the  wonders  of  Morton 
Sanders'  great  farm,  and  he  listened  to  Burnham 
and  the  colonel  talk  politics  and  tobacco,  and  the 
old  days,  and  the  destructive  changes  that  were 
subtly  undermining  the  glories  of  those  old  days. 
In  the  tri-cornered  foot-ball  fight  for  the  State 
championship,  he  had  played  one  game  with  Cen 
tral  University  and  one  with  old  Transylvania, 
and  he  had  learned  the  joy  of  victory  in  one  and  in 
the  other  the  heart-sickening  depression  of  defeat. 
One  never-to-be-forgotten  night  he  had  gone  coon- 
hunting  with  Mavis  and  Marjorie  and  Gray — 
riding  slowly  through  shadowy  woods,  or  reck 
lessly  galloping  over  the  blue-grass  fields,  and 
again,  as  many  times  before,  he  felt  his  heart 
pounding  with  emotions  that  seemed  almost  to 
make  it  burst. 

For  Marjorie,  child  of  sunlight,  and  Mavis,  child 
of  shadows,  riding  bareheaded  together  under  the 
brilliant  moon,  were  the  twin  spirits  of  the  night, 

208 


THE  HEART  OF  THE  HILLS 

and  that  moon  dimmed  the  eyes  of  both  only  as 
she  dimmed  the  stars.  He  saw  Mavis  swerving 
at  every  stop  and  every  gallop  to  Gray's  side,  and 
always  he  found  Marjorie  somewhere  near  him. 
And  only  John  Burnham  understood  it  all,  and 
he  wondered  and  smiled,  and  with  the  smile  won 
dered  again. 

There  had  been  no  time  for  dancing  lessons,  but 
the  little  comedy  of  sentiment  went  on  just  the 
same.  In  neither  Mavis  nor  Jason  was  there  the 
slightest  consciousness  of  any  chasm  between 
them  and  Marjorie  and  Gray,  though  at  times 
both  felt  in  the  latter  pair  a  vague  atmosphere 
that  neither  would  for  a  long  time  be  able  to  define 
as  patronage,  and  so  when  Jason  received  an  invi 
tation  to  the  first  dance  given  in  the  hotel  ball 
room  in  town,  he  went  straight  to  Marjorie  and 
solemnly  asked  "the  pleasure  of  her  company" 
that  night. 

For  a  moment  Marjorie  was  speechless. 

"Why,  Jason,"  she  gasped,  "I — I — you're  a 
freshman,  and  anyhow " 

For  the  first  time  the  boy  gained  an  inkling  of 
that  chasm,  and  his  eyes  turned  so  fiercely  sombre 
and  suspicious  that  she  added  in  a  hurry: 

"It's  a  joke,  Jason — that  invitation.  No  fresh 
man  can  go  to  one  of  those  dances." 

Jason  looked  perplexed  now,  and  still  a  little 
suspicious. 

"Who'll  keep  me  from  goin'?"  he  asked  quietly. 
209 


THE  HEART  OF  THE  HILLS 

"The  sophomores.  They  sent  you  that  invi 
tation  to  get  you  into  trouble.  They'll  tear  your 
clothes  off." 

As  was  the  habit  of  his  grandfather  Hawn, 
Jason's  tongue  went  reflectively  to  the  hollow  of 
one  cheek,  and  his  eyes  dropped  to  the  yellow 
leaves  about  their  feet,  and  Marjorie  waited  with 
a  tingling  thrill  that  some  vague  thing  of  impor 
tance  was  going  to  happen.  Jason's  face  was  very 
calm  when  he  looked  up  at  last,  and  he  held  out 
the  card  of  invitation. 

"Will  that  git — get  me  in,  when  I  a-get  to  the 
door?" 

"Of  course,  but " 

"Then  I'll  be  th-there,"  said  Jason,  and  he 
turned  away. 

Now  Marjorie  knew  that  Gray  expected  to  take 
her  to  that  dance,  but  he  had  not  yet  even  men 
tioned  it.  Jason  had  come  to  her  swift  and 
straight;  the  thrill  still  tingled  within  her,  and  be 
fore  she  knew  it  she  had  cried  impulsively: 

"Jason,  if  you  get  to  that  dance,  I'll — I'll  dance 
every  square  dance  with  you." 

Jason  nodded  simply  and  turned  away. 

The  mischief-makers  soon  learned  the  boy's  pur 
pose,  and  there  was  great  joy  among  them,  and 
when  Gray  finally  asked  Marjorie  to  go  with  him, 
she  demurely  told  him  she  was  going  with  Jason. 
Gray  was  amazed  and  indignant,  and  he  pleaded 
with  her  not  to  do  anything  so  foolish. 

210 


THE  HEART  OF  THE  HILLS 

"Why,  it's  outrageous.  It  will  be  the  talk  of 
the  town.  Your  mother  won't  like  it.  Maybe 
they  won't  do  anything  to  him  because  you  are 
along,  but  they  might,  and  think  of  you  being 
mixed  up  in  such  a  mess.  Anyhow  I  tell  you — 
you  cant  do  it." 

Marjorie  paled  and  Gray  got  a  look  from  her 
that  he  had  never  had  before. 

"Did  I  hear  you  say  'cant'?"  she  asked  coldly. 
"Well,  I'm  not  going  with  him — he  won't  let  me. 
He's  going  alone.  I'll  meet  him  there." 

Gray  made  a  helpless  gesture. 

"Well,  I'll  try  to  get  the  fellows  to  let  him 
alone — on  your  account." 

"Don't  bother — he  can  take  care  of  himself." 

"Why,  Marjorie!" 

The  girl's  coldness  was  turning  to  fire. 

"Why  don't  you  take  Mavis?" 

Gray  started  an  impatient  refusal,  and  stopped 
— Mavis  was  passing  in  the  grass  on  the  other  side 
of  the  road,  and  her  face  was  flaming  violently. 

"She  heard  you,"  said  Gray  in  a  low  voice. 

The  heel  of  one  of  Marjorie's  little  boots  came 
sharply  down  on  the  gravelled  road. 

"Yes,  and  I  hope  she  heard  you — and  don't  you 
ever — ever — ever  say  cant  to  me  again."  And 
she  flashed  away. 

The  news  went  rapidly  through  the  college  and, 
as  Gray  predicted,  became  the  talk  of  the  young 
people  of  the  town.  Marjorie's  mother  did  object 

211 


THE  HEART  OF  THE  HILLS 

violently,  but  Marjorie  remained  firm — what  harm 
was  there  in  dancing  with  Jason  Hawn,  even  if  he 
was  a  poor  mountaineer  and  a  freshman?  She 
was  not  a  snob,  even  if  Gray  was.  Jason  himself 
was  quiet,  non-communicative,  dignified.  He  re 
fused  to  discuss  the  matter  with  anybody,  ignored 
comment  and  curiosity,  and  his  very  silence  sent  a 
wave  of  uneasiness  through  some  of  the  sopho 
mores  and  puzzled  them  all.  Even  John  Burnham, 
who  had  severely  reprimanded  and  shamed  Jason 
for  the  flag  incident,  gravely  advised  the  boy  not 
to  go,  but  even  to  him  Jason  was  respectfully  non 
committal,  for  this  was  a  matter  that,  as  the  boy 
saw  it,  involved  his  rights,  and  the  excitement  grew 
quite  feverish  when  one  bit  of  news  leaked  out. 
At  the  beginning  of  the  session  the  old  president, 
perhaps  in  view  of  the  political  turmoil  imminent, 
had  made  a  request  that  one  would  hardly  hear 
in  the  chapel  of  any  other  hall  of  learning  in  the 
broad  United  States. 

"If  any  student  had  brought  with  him  to  col 
lege  any  weapon  or  fire-arm,  he  would  please  de 
liver  it  to  the  commandant,  who  would  return  it 
to  him  at  the  end  of  the  session,  or  whenever  he 
should  leave  college." 

Now  Jason  had  deliberated  deeply  on  that  re 
quest;  on  the  point  of  personal  privilege  involved 
he  differed  with  the  president,  and  a  few  days 
before  the  dance  one  of  his  room-mates  found  not 
only  a  knife,  but  a  huge  pistol — relics  of  Jason's 

212 


THE  HEART  OF  THE  HILLS 

feudal  days — protruding  from  the  top  bed.  This 
was  the  bit  of  news  that  leaked,  and  Marjorie 
paled  when  she  heard  it,  but  her  word  was  given, 
and  she  would  keep  it.  There  was  no  sneaking 
on  Jason's  part  that  night,  and  when  a  crowd  of 
sophomores  gathered  at  the  entrance  of  his  dor 
mitory  they  found  a  night-hawk  that  Jason  had 
hired,  waiting  at  the  door,  and  patiently  they 
waited  for  Jason. 

Down  at  the  hotel  ballroom  Gray  and  Mar 
jorie  waited,  Gray  anxious,  worried,  and  angry, 
and  Marjorie  with  shining  eyes  and  a  pale  but 
determined  face.  And  she  shot  a  triumphant 
glance  toward  Gray  when  she  saw  the  figure  of  the 
young  mountaineer  framed  at  last  in  the  doorway 
of  the  ballroom.  There  Jason  stood  a  moment, 
uncouth  and  stock-still.  His  eyes  moved  only 
until  he  caught  sight  of  Marjorie,  and  then,  with 
them  fixed  steadily  on  her,  he  solemnly  walked 
through  the  sudden  silence  that  swiftly  spread 
through  the  room  straight  for  her.  He  stood 
cool,  calm,  and  with  a  curious  dignity  before  her, 
and  the  only  sign  of  his  emotion  was  in  a  reckless 
lapse  into  his  mountain  speech. 

"I've  come  to  tell  ye  I  can't  dance  with  ye. 
Nobody  can  keep  me  from  goin'  whar  I've  got 
a  right  to  go,  but  I  won't  stay  nowhar  Fm  not 
wanted." 

And,  without  waiting  for  her  answer,  he  turned 
and  stalked  solemnly  out  again. 


XXII 

'T^HE  miracle  had  happened,  and  just  how  no- 
•*•  body  could  ever  say.  The  boy  had  appeared 
in  the  door-way  and  had  paused  there  full  in  the 
light.  No  revolver  was  visible — it  could  hardly 
have  been  concealed  in  the  much-too-small  clothes 
that  he  wore — and  his  eyes  flashed  no  challenge. 
But  he  stood  there  an  instant,  with  face  set  and 
stern,  and  then  he  walked  slowly  to  the  old  rattle 
trap  vehicle,  and,  unchallenged,  drove  away,  as, 
unchallenged,  he  walked  quietly  back  to  his  room 
again.  That  defiance  alone  would  have  marked 
him  with  no  little  dignity.  It  gave  John  Burnham 
a  great  deal  of  carefully  concealed  joy,  it  dum- 
founded  Gray,  and,  while  Mavis  took  it  as  a  mat 
ter  of  course,  it  thrilled  Marjorie,  saddened  her, 
and  made  her  a  little  ashamed.  Nor  did  it  end 
there.  Some  change  was  quickly  apparent  to  Ja 
son  in  Mavis.  She  turned  brooding  and  sullen, 
and  one  day  when  she  and  Jason  met  Gray  in  the 
college  yard,  she  averted  her  eyes  when  the  latter 
lifted  his  cap,  and  pretended  not  to  see  him.  Ja 
son  saw  an  uneasy  look  in  Gray's  eyes,  and  when 
he  turned  questioningly  to  Mavis,  her  face  was 
pale  with  anger.  That  night  he  went  home  with 
her  to  see  his  mother,  and  when  the  two  sat  on  the 

214 


THE  HEART  OF  THE  HILLS 

porch  in  the  dim  starlight  after  supper,  he  bluntly 
asked  her  what  the  matter  was,  and  bluntly  she 
told  him.  Only  once  before  had  he  ever  spoken 
of  Gray  to  Mavis,  and  that  was  about  the  meet 
ing  in  the  lane,  and  then  she  scorned  to  tell  him 
whether  or  not  the  meeting  was  accidental,  and 
Jason  knew  thereby  that  it  was.  Unfortunately 
he  had  not  stopped  there. 

"I  saw  him  try  to  kiss  ye,"  he  said  indignantly. 

"Have  you  never  tried  to  kiss  a  girl?"  Mavis 
had  asked  quietly,  and  Jason  reddened. 

"Yes,"  he  admitted  reluctantly. 

"And  did  she  always  let  ye?" 

"Well,  no— not " 

"Very  well,  then,"  Mavis  snapped,  and  she 
flaunted  away. 

It  was  different  now,  the  matter  was  more  seri 
ous,  and  now  they  were  cousins  and  Hawns. 
Blood  spoke  to  blood  and  answered  to  blood,  and 
when  at  the  end  Mavis  broke  into  a  fit  of  shame 
and  tears,  a  burst  of  light  opened  in  Jason's  brain 
and  his  heart  raged  not  only  for  Mavis,  but  for 
himself.  Gray  had  been  ashamed  to  go  to  that 
dance  with  Mavis,  and  Marjorie  had  been  ashamed 
to  go  with  him — there  was  a  chasm,  and  with 
every  word  that  Mavis  spoke  the  wider  that  chasm 
yawned. 

"Oh,  I  know  it,"  she  sobbed.     "I  couldn't  be 
lieve  it  at  first,  but  I  know  it  now" — she  began  to 
drop  back  into  her  old  speech — "they  come  d^' 
in  the  mountains,  and  grandpap  was  ni'* 

215 


THE  HEART  OF  THE  HILLS 

and  when  we  come  up  here  they  was  nice  to  us. 
But  down  thar  and  up  here  we  was  just  queer  and 
funny  to  'em — an'  we're  that  way  yit.  They're 
good-hearted  an'  they'd  do  anything  in  the  world 
fer  us,  but  we  ain't  their  kind  an'  they  ain't  ourn. 
They  knowed  it  and  we  didn't — but  I  know  it 


now." 


So  that  was  the  reason  Marjorie  had  hesitated 
when  Jason  asked  her  to  go  to  the  dance  with  him. 

"Then  why  did  she  go?"  he  burst  out.  He  had 
mentioned  no  name  even,  but  Mavis  had  been  fol 
lowing  his  thoughts. 

"Any  gal  'ud  do  that  fer  fun,"  she  answered, 
"an*  to  git  even  with  Gray." 

"Why  do  you  reckon " 

"That  don't  make  no  difference — she  wants  to 
git  even  with  me,  too." 

Jason  wheeled  sharply,  but  before  his  lips  could 
open  Mavis  had  sprung  to  her  feet. 

"No,  I  hain't!"  she  cried  hotly,  and  rushed  into 
the  house. 

Jason  sat  on  under  the  stars,  brooding.  There 
was  no  need  for  another  word  between  them. 
Alike  they  saw  the  incident  and  what  it  meant; 
they  felt  alike,  and  alike  both  would  act.  A  few 
minutes  later  his  mother  came  out  on  the  porch. 

"Whut's  the  matter  with  Mavis?" 

"You'll  have  to  ask  her,  mammy." 

With  a  keen  look  at  the  boy,  Martha  Hawn 
went  back  into  the  house,  and  Jason  heard  Steve's 
heavy  tread  behind  him. 

216 


THE  HEART  OF  THE  HILLS 

"I  know  whut  the  matter  is,"  he  drawled. 
"Thar  hain't  nothin'  the  matter  'ceptin'  that 
Mavis  ain't  the  only  fool  in  this  hyeh  fambly." 

Jason  was  furiously  silent,  and  Steve  walked 
chuckling  to  the  railing  of  the  porch  and  spat  over 
it  through  his  teeth  and  fingers.  Then  he  looked 
up  at  the  stars  and  yawned,  and  with  his  mouth 
still  open,  went  casually  on: 

"I  seed  Arch  Hawn  in  town  this  mornin'.  He 
says  folks  is  a-hand-grippin'  down  thar  in  the 
mountains  right  an'  left.  Thar's  a  truce  on  be 
twixt  the  Hawns  an'  Honeycutts  an'  they're  gittin' 
ready  fer  the  election  together." 

The  lad  did  not  turn  his  head  nor  did  his  lips 
open. 

"These  fellers  up  here  tried  to  bust  our  county 
up  into  little  pieces  once — an'  do  you  know  why  ? 
Bekase  we  was  so  lawless."  Steve  laughed  sav 
agely.  "They're  gittin'  wuss'n  we  air.  They  say 
we  stole  the  State  fer  that  bag  o'  wind,  Bryan, 
when  we'd  been  votin'  the  same  way  fer  forty 
years.  Now  they're  goin'  to  gag  us  an'  tie  us 
up  like  a  yearlin'  calf.  But  folks  in  the  moun 
tains  ain't  a-goin'  to  do  much  bawlin' — they're 
gittin'  ready." 

Still  Jason  refused  to  answer,  but  Steve  saw 
that  the  lad's  hands  and  mouth  were  clenched. 

"They're  gittin'  ready"  he  repeated,  "an'  I'll 
be  thar." 


217 


XXIII 

T3UT  the  sun  of  election  day  went  down  and  a 
breath  of  relief  passed  like  a  south  wind  over 
the  land.  Perhaps  it  was  the  universal  recogni 
tion  of  the  universal  danger  that  prevented  an 
outbreak,  but  the  morning  after  found  both  par 
ties  charging  fraud,  claiming  victory,  and  dead 
locked  like  two  savage  armies  in  the  crisis  of  act 
ual  battle.  For  a  fortnight  each  went  on  claiming 
the  victory.  In  one  mountain  county  the  auto 
crat's  local  triumvirate  was  surrounded  by  five 
hundred  men,  while  it  was  making  its  count;  in 
another  there  were  three  thousand  determined  on 
lookers;  and  still  another  mountain  triumvirate 
was  visited  by  nearly  all  the  male  inhabitants  of 
the  county  who  rode  in  on  horseback  and  waited 
silently  and  threateningly  in  the  court-house 
square. 

At  the  capital  the  arsenal  was  under  a  picked 
guard  and  the  autocrat  was  said  to  be  preparing 
for  a  resort  to  arms.  A  few  mountaineers  were 
seen  drifting  about  the  streets,  and  the  State  offices 
— "just  a-lookin'  aroun'  to  see  if  their  votes  was 
a-goin'  to  be  counted  in  or  not." 

At  the  end  of  the  fortnight  the  autocrat  claimed 
the  fight  by  one  vote,  but  three  days  before  Thanks- 

218 


THE  HEART  OF  THE  HILLS 

giving  Day  two  of  the  State  triumvirate  declared 
for  the  Republican  from  the  Pennyroyal — and 
resigned. 

"Great  Caesar!"  shouted  Colonel  Pendleton. 
"Can  the  one  that's  left  appoint  his  own  board?" 

Being  for  the  autocrat,  he  not  only  could  but  did 
— for  the  autocrat's  work  was  only  begun.  The 
contest  was  yet  to  come. 

Meanwhile  the  great  game  was  at  hand.  The 
fight  for  the  championship  lay  now  between  the 
State  University  and  old  Transylvania,  and,  amid 
a  forest  of  waving  flags  and  a  frenzied  storm  from 
human  throats,  was  fought  out  desperately  on  the 
day  that  the  nation  sets  aside  for  peace,  prayer, 
and  thanksgiving.  Every  atom  of  resentment, 
indignation,  rebellion,  ambition  that  was  stored 
up  in  Jason  went  into  that  fight.  It  seemed  to 
John  Burnham  and  to  Mavis  and  Marjorie  that 
their  team  was  made  up  of  just  one  black  head 
and  one  yellow  one,  for  everywhere  over  the  field 
and  all  the  time,  like  a  ball  of  fire  and  its  shadow, 
those  two  heads  darted,  and,  when  they  came  to 
gether,  they  were  the  last  to  go  down  in  the  crowd 
of  writhing  bodies  att|ti:he  first  to  leap  into  view 
again — and  always  ^IVtfie  ball  nearer  the  ene 
my's  goal.  Behind  tnat^oal  each  head  darted 
once,  and  by  just  those  two  goals  was  the  game 
won.  Gray  was  the  hero  he  always  was;  Jason 
was  the  coming  idol,  and  both  were  borne  off  the 
field  on  the  shoulders  of  a  crowd  that  was  hoarse 

219 


THE  HEART  OF  THE  HILLS 

with  shouting  triumph  and  weeping  tears  of  joy. 
And  on  that  triumphal  way  Jason  swerved  his  eyes 
from  Marjorie  and  Mavis  swerved  hers  from  Gray. 
There  was  no  sleep  for  Jason  that  night,  but  the 
next  night  the  fierce  tension  of  mind  and  muscle 
relaxed  and  he  slept  long  and  hard;  and  Sunday 
morning  found  him  out  in  the  warm  sunlight  of 
the  autumn  fields,  seated  on  a  fence  rail — alone. 

He  had  left  the  smoke  cloud  of  the  town  behind 
him  and  walked  aimlessly  afield,  except  to  take  the 
turnpike  that  led  the  opposite  way  from  Mavis 
and  Marjorie  and  John  Burnham  and  Gray,  for  he 
wanted  to  be  alone.  Now,  perched  in  the  crotch 
of  a  stake-and-ridered  fence,  he  was  calmly,  search- 
ingly,  unsparingly  taking  stock  with  himself. 

In  the  first  place  the  training-table  was  no  more, 
and  he  must  go  back  to  delivering  morning  papers. 
With  foot-ball,  with  diversions  in  college  and  in  the 
country,  he  had  lost  much  time  and  he  must  make 
that  up.  The  political  turmoil  had  kept  his  mind 
from  his  books  and  for  a  while  Marjorie  had  taken 
it  away  from  them  altogether.  He  had  come  to 
college  none  too  well  prepared,  and  already  John 
Burnham  had  given  him  one  kindly  warning;  but 
so  supreme  was  his  self-confidence  that  he  had 
smiled  at  the  geologist  and  to  himself.  Now  he 
frowningly  wondered  if  he  had  not  lost  his  head 
and  made  a  fool  of  himself;  and  a  host  of  worries 
and  suspicions  attacked  him  so  sharply  and  sud 
denly  that,  before  he  knew  what  he  was  doing,  he 

7.2O 


THE  HEART  OF  THE  HILLS 

had  leaped  panic-stricken  from  the  fence  and  at  a 
half-trot  was  striking  back  across  the  fields  in  a 
bee-line  for  his  room  and  his  books.  And  night 
and  day  thereafter  he  stuck  to  them. 

Meanwhile  the  struggle  was  going  on  at  the 
capital,  and  by  the  light  of  every  dawn  the  boy 
drank  in  every  detail  of  it  from  the  morning  pa 
per  that  was  literally  his  daily  bread.  Two  weeks 
after  the  big  game,  the  man  from  the  Pennyroyal 
was  installed  as  governor.  The  picked  guard  at 
the  arsenal  was  reinforced.  The  contesting  auto 
crat  was  said  to  have  stored  arms  in  the  peniten 
tiary,  a  gray,  high-walled  fortress  within  a  stone's 
throw  of  the  governor's  mansion,  for  the  Demo 
cratic  warden  thereof  was  his  loyal  henchman. 
The  first  rumor  of  the  coming  of  the  mountaineers 
spread,  and  the  capital  began  to  fill  with  the  ward 
heelers  and  bad  men  of  the  autocrat. 

A  week  passed,  there  was  no  filing  of  a  protest,  a 
pall  of  suspense  hung  over  the  land  like  a  black 
cloud,  and  under  it  there  was  no  more  restless 
spirit  than  Jason,  who  had  retreated  into  his  own 
soul  as  though  it  were  a  fortress  of  his  hills.  No 
more  was  he  seen  at  any  social  gathering — not 
even  at  the  gymnasium,  for  the  delivery  of  his 
morning  papers  gave  him  all  the  exercise  that  he 
needed  and  more.  His  hard  work  and  short  hours 
of  sleep  began  to  tell  on  him.  Sometimes  the 
printed  page  of  his  book  would  swim  before  his 
eyes  and  his  brain  go  panic-stricken.  He  grew 

221 


THE  HEART  OF  THE  HILLS 

pale,  thin,  haggard,  and  worn,  and  Marjorie  saw 
him  only  when  he  was  silently,  swiftly  striding  from 
dormitory  to  class-room  and  back  again — grim, 
reticent,  and  non-approachable.  When  Christmas 
approached  he  would  not  promise  to  go  to  Gray's 
nor  to  John  Burnham's,  and  he  rarely  went  now 
even  to  his  mother.  In  Mavis  Hawn,  Gray  found 
the  same  mystifying  change,  for  when  the  morbidly 
sensitive  spirit  of  the  mountaineer  is  wounded, 
healing  is  slow  and  cure  difficult.  One  day,  how 
ever,  each  pair  met.  Passing  the  mouth  of  the 
lane,  Gray  saw  Mavis  walking  slowly  along  it 
homeward  and  he  rode  after  her.  She  turned 
when  she  heard  his  horse  behind  her,  her  chin 
lifted,  and  her  dark  sullen  eyes  looked  into  his 
with  a  stark,  direct  simplicity  that  left  him  with 
his  lips  half  open — confused  and  speechless.  And 
gently,  at  last: 

"What's  the  matter,  Mavis?" 

Still  she  looked,  unquestioning,  uncompromis 
ing,  and  turned  without  answer  and  went  slowly 
on  home  while  the  boy  sat  his  horse  and  looked 
after  her  until  she  climbed  the  porch  of  her  cottage 
and,  without  once  turning  her  head,  disappeared 
within.  But  Jason  at  his  meeting  with  Marjorie 
broke  his  grim  reticence  in  spite  of  himself.  She 
had  come  upon  him  at  sunset  under  the  snowy 
willows  by  the  edge  of  the  ice-locked  pond.  He 
had  let  the  floodgates  down  and  she  had  been 
shaken  and  terrified  by  the  torrent  that  rushed 

222 


THE  HEART  OF  THE  HILLS 

from  him.  The  girl  shrank  from  his  bitter  denun 
ciation  of  himself.  He  had  been  a  fool.  The  mid 
year  examinations  would  be  a  tragedy  for  him,  and 
he  must  go  to  the  "kitchen"  or  leave  college  with 
pride  broken  and  in  just  disgrace.  Fate  had 
trapped  him  like  a  rat.  A  grewsome  oath  had 
been  put  on  him  as  a  child  and  from  it  he  could 
never  escape.  He  had  been  robbed  of  his  birth 
right  by  his  own  mother  and  the  people  of  the 
Blue-grass,  and  Marjorie's  people  were  now  robbing 
his  of  their  national  birthrights  as  well.  The  boy 
did  not  say  her  people,  but  she  knew  that  was  what 
he  meant,  and  she  looked  so  hurt  that  Jason  spoke 
quickly  his  gratitude  for  all  the  kindness  that  had 
been  shown  him.  And  when  he  started  with  his 
gratitude  to  her,  his  memories  got  the  better  of 
him  and  he  stopped  for  a  moment  with  hungry 
eyes,  but  seeing  her  consternation  over  what  might 
be  coming  next,  he  had  ended  with  a  bitter  smile 
at  the  further  bitter  proof  she  was  giving  him. 

"But  I  understand — now,"  he  said  sternly  to 
himself  and  sadly  to  her,  and  he  turned  away  with 
out  seeing  the  quiver  of  her  mouth  and  the  starting 
of  her  tears. 

Going  to  his  mother's  that  afternoon,  Jason 
found  Mavis  standing  by  the  fence,  hardly  less  pale 
than  the  snow  under  her  feet,  and  looking  into  the 
sunset.  She  started  when  she  heard  the  crunch 
of  his  feet,  and  from  the  look  of  her  face  he  knew 
that  she  thought  he  might  be  some  one  else. 

223 


THE  HEART  OF  THE  HILLS 

He  saw  that  she  had  been  crying,  and  as  quickly 
she  knew  that  the  boy  was  in  a  like  agony  of  mind. 
There  was  only  one  swift  look — a  mutual  recog 
nition  of  a  mutual  betrayal — but  no  word  passed 
then  nor  when  they  walked  together  back  to  the 
house,  for  race  and  relationship  made  no  word 
possible.  Within  the  house  Jason  noticed  his 
mother's  eyes  fixed  anxiously  on  him,  and  when 
Mavis  was  clearing  up  in  the  kitchen  after  supper, 
she  subtly  shifted  her  solicitude  to  the  girl  in  or 
der  to  draw  some  confession  from  her  son. 

"Mavis  wants  to  go  back  to  the  mountains." 

The  ruse  worked,  for  Jason  looked  up  quickly 
and  then  into  the  fire  while  the  mother  waited. 

"Sometimes  I  want  to  go  back  myself,"  he  said 
wearily;  "it's  gittin'  too  much  for  me  here." 

Martha  Hawn  looked  at  her  husband  stretched 
on  the  bed  in  a  drunken  sleep  and  began  to  cry 
softly. 

"It's  al'ays  been  too  much  fer  me,"  she  sobbed. 
"I've  al'ays  wanted  to  go  back." 

For  the  first  time  Jason  began  to  think  how 
lonely  her  life  must  be,  and,  perhaps  as  the  result 
of  his  own  suffering,  his  heart  suddenly  began  to 
ache  for  her. 

"Don't  worry,  mammy — I'll  take  ye  back  some 
day." 

Mavis  came  back  from  the  kitchen.  Again  she 
had  been  crying.  Again  the  same  keen  look 
passed  between  them  and  with  only  that  look 

224 


THE  HEART  OF  THE  HILLS 

Jason  climbed  the  stairs  to  her  room.  As  his  eyes 
wandered  about  the  familiar  touches  the  hand  of 
civilization  had  added  to  the  bare  little  chamber 
it  once  was,  he  saw  on  the  dresser  of  varnished 
pine  one  touch  of  that  hand  that  he  had  never 
noticed  before — the  picture  of  Gray  Pendleton. 
Evidently  Mavis  had  forgotten  to  put  it  away,  and 
Jason  looked  at  it  curiously  a  moment — the  frank 
face,  strong  mouth,  and  winning  smile — but  he 
never  noticed  that  it  was  placed  where  she  could 
see  it  when  she  kneeled  at  her  bedside,  and  never 
guessed  that  it  was  the  last  earthly  thing  her  eyes 
rested  on  before  darkness  closed  about  her,  and 
that  the  girl  took  its  image  upward  with  her  even 
in  her  prayers. 


225 


XXIV 

red  dawn  of  the  twentieth  century  was 
stealing  over  the  frost-white  fields,  and  in  the 
alien  house  of  his  fathers  John  Burnham  was 
watching  it  through  his  bedroom  window.  There 
had  been  little  sleep  for  him  that  New  Year's  night, 
and  even  now,  when  he  went  back  to  bed,  sleep 
would  not  come. 

The  first  contest  in  the  life  of  the  State  was 
going  on  at  the  little  capital.  That  capital  was 
now  an  armed  camp.  The  law-makers  there 
themselves  were  armed,  divided,  and  men  of  each 
party  were  marked  by  men  of  the  other  for  the 
first  shot  when  the  crisis  should  come.  There 
was  a  Democratic  conspiracy  to  defraud — a  Re 
publican  conspiracy  to  resist  by  force  to  the  death. 
Even  in  the  placing  of  the  ballots  in  the  box  for 
the  drawing  of  the  contest  board,  fraud  was  openly 
charged,  and  even  then  pistols  almost  leaped  from 
their  holsters.  Republicans  whose  seats  were  con 
tested  would  be  unseated  and  the  autocrat's  tri 
umph  would  thus  be  sure — that  was  the  plan 
wrought  out  by  his  inflexible  will  and  iron  hand. 
The  governor  from  the  Pennyroyal  swore  he  would 
leave  his  post  only  on  a  stretcher.  Disfranchise- 
ment  was  on  the  very  eve  of  taking  place,  liberty 

226 


THE  HEART  OF  THE  HILLS 

was  at  stake,  and  Kentuckians  unless  aroused  to 
action  would  be  a  free  people  no  longer.  The 
Republican  cry  was  that  the  autocrat  had  created 
his  election  triumvirate,  had  stolen  'his  nomina 
tion,  tried  to  steal  his  election,  and  was  now  try 
ing  to  steal  the  governorship.  There  was  even  a 
meeting  in  the  big  town  of  the  State  to  determine 
openly  whether  there  should  be  resistance  to  him 
by  force.  Two  men  from  the  mountains  had  met 
in  the  lobby  of  the  Capitol  Hotel  and  a  few  mo 
ments  later,  under  the  drifting  powder  smoke,  two 
men  lay  wounded  and  three  lay  dead.  The  quar 
rel  was  personal,  it  was  said,  but  the  dial-hand 
of  the  times  was  left  pointing  with  sinister  proph 
ecy  at  tragedy  yet  to  come.  And  in  the  dark  of 
the  first  moon  of  that  century  the  shadowy  hills- 
men  were  getting  ready  to  swoop  down.  And  it 
was  the  dawn  of  the  twentieth  century  of  the 
Christian  era  that  Burnham  watched,  the  dawn 
of  the  one  hundred  and  twenty-fifth  year  of  the 
nation's  life — of  the  one  hundred  and  seventh 
year  of  statehood  for  Kentucky.  And  thinking  of 
the  onward  sweep  of  the  world,  of  the  nation, 
North,  East,  West,  and  South,  the  backward  stag 
gering  of  his  own  loved  State  tugged  sorely  at  his 
heart. 

In  chapel  next  morning  John  Burnham  made  an 
other  little  talk — chiefly  to  the  young  men  of  the 
Blue-grass  among  whom  this  tragedy  was  taking 
place.  No  inheritance  in  American  life  was  better 

227 


THE  HEART  OF  THE  HILLS 

than  theirs,  he  told  them — no  better  ideals  in  the 
relations  of  family,  State,  and  nation.  But  the 
State  was  sick  now  with  many  ills  and  it  was  com 
ing  to  trial  now  before  the  judgment  of  the  watch 
ing  world.  If  it  stood  the  crucial  fire,  it  would  be 
the  part  of  all  the  youth  before  him  to  maintain 
and  even  better  the  manhood  that  should  come 
through  unscathed.  And  if  it  failed,  God  forbid, 
it  would  be  for  them  to  heal,  to  mend,  to  upbuild, 
and,  undaunted,  push  on  and  upward  again.  And 
as  at  the  opening  of  the  session  he  saw  again, 
lifted  to  him  with  peculiar  intenseness,  the  faces 
of  Marjorie  and  Gray  Pendleton,  and  of  Mavis 
and  Jason  Hawn — only  now  Gray  looked  deeply 
serious  and  Jason  sullen  and  defiant.  And  at 
Mavis,  Marjorie  did  not  turn  this  time  to  smile. 
Nor  was  there  any  furtive  look  from  any  one  of 
the  four  to  any  other,  when  the  students  rose, 
though  each  pair  of  cousins  drifted  together  on  the 
way  out,  and  in  pairs  went  on  their  separate  ways. 
The  truth  was  that  Marjorie  and  Gray  were 
none  too  happy  over  the  recent  turn  of  affairs. 
Both  were  too  fine,  too  generous,  to  hurt  the  feel 
ings  of  others  except  with  pain  to  themselves. 
They  knew  Mavis  and  Jason  were  hurt  but,  hardly 
realizing  that  between  the  four  the  frank  democ 
racy  of  childhood  was  gone,  they  hardly  knew  how 
and  how  deeply.  Both  were  mystified,  greatly 
disturbed,  drawn  more  than  ever  by  the  proud 
withdrawal  of  the  mountain  boy  and  girl,  and 

228 


THE  HEART  OF  THE  HILLS 

both  were  anxious  to  make  amends.  More  than 
once  Gray  came  near  riding  over  to  Steve  Hawn's 
and  trying  once  more  to  understand  and  if  possi 
ble  to  explain  and  restore  good  feeling,  but  the 
memory  of  his  rebuff  from  Mavis  and  the  unap 
proachable  quality  in  Jason  made  him  hesitate. 
Naturally  with  Marjorie  this  state  of  mind  was 
worse,  because  of  the  brink  of  Jason's  confession  for 
which  she  knew  she  was  much  to  blame,  and  be 
cause  of  the  closer  past  between  them.  Once  only 
she  saw  him  striding  the  fields,  and  though  she 
pulled  in  her  horse  to  watch  him,  Jason  did  not 
know;  and  once  he  came  to  her  when  he  did  not 
know  that  she  knew.  It  was  the  night  before  the 
mid-year  examinations  and  Marjorie,  in  spite  of 
that  fact,  had  gone  to  a  dance  and,  because  of  it, 
was  spending  the  night  in  town  with  a  friend. 
The  two  girls  had  got  home  a  little  before  three 
in  the  morning,  and  Marjorie  had  put  out  her 
light  and  gone  to  bed  but,  being  sleepless,  had 
risen  and  sat  dreaming  before  the  fire.  The  ex 
traordinary  whiteness  of  the  moonlight  had  drawn 
her  to  the  window  when  she  rose  again,  and  she 
stood  there  like  a  tall  lily,  looking  silent  sympa 
thy  to  the  sufferers  in  the  bitter  cold  outside.  She 
put  one  bare  arm  on  the  sill  of  the  closed  window 
and  looked  down  at  the  snow-crystals  hardly  less 
brilliant  under  the  moon  than  they  would  be  under 
the  first  sun-rays  next  morning,  looked  through 
the  snow-laden  branches  of  the  trees,  over  the 

229 


THE  HEART  OF  THE  HILLS 

white  house-tops,  and  out  to  the  still  white  fields — 
the  white  world  within  her  answering  the  white 
world  without  as  in  a  dream.  She  was  thinking 
of  Jason,  as  she  had  been  thinking  for  days,  for 
she  could  not  get  the  boy  out  of  her  mind.  All 
night  at  the  dance  she  had  been  thinking  of  him, 
and  when  between  the  stone  pillars  of  the  gateway 
a  figure  appeared  without  overcoat,  hands  in  pock 
ets  and  a  bundle  of  something  under  one  arm,  the 
hand  on  the  window-sill  dropped  till  it  clutched 
her  heart  at  the  strangeness  of  it,  for  her  watching 
eyes  saw  plain  in  the  moonlight  the  drawn  white 
face  of  Jason  Hawn.  He  tossed  something  on  the 
porch  and  her  tears  came  when  she  realized  what 
it  meant.  Then  he  drew  a  letter  out  of  his 
pocket,  hesitated,  turned,  turned  again,  tossed  it 
too  upon  the  porch,  and  wearily  crunched  out 
through  the  gate.  The  girl  whirled  for  her  dress 
ing-gown  and  slippers,  and  slipped  downstairs  to 
the  door,  for  her  instinct  told  her  the  letter  was 
for  her,  and  a  few  minutes  later  she  was  reading 
it  by  the  light  of  the  fire. 

"I  know  where  you  are,"  the  boy  had  written. 
"Don't  worry,  but  I  want  to  tell  you  that  I  take 
back  that  promise  I  made  in  the  road  that  day." 

John  Burnham's  examination  was  first  for  Jason 
that  morning,  and  when  the  boy  came  into  the 
recitation-room  the  school-master  was  shocked  by 
the  tumult  in  his  face.  He  saw  the  lad  bend  list- 

230 


THE  HEART  OF  THE  HILLS 

lessly  over  his  papers  and  look  helplessly  up  and 
around — worn,  brain-fagged,  and  half  wild — saw 
him  rise  suddenly  and  hurriedly,  and  nodded  him 
an  excuse  before  he  could  ask  for  it,  thinking  the 
boy  had  suddenly  gone  ill.  When  he  did  not  come 
back  Burnham  got  uneasy,  and  after  an  hour  he 
called  another  member  of  the  faculty  to  take  his 
place  and  hurried  out.  As  he  went  down  the  cor 
ridor  a  figure  detached  itself  from  a  group  of  girls 
and  flew  after  him.  He  felt  his  arm  caught  tightly 
and  he  turned  to  find  Marjorie,  white,  with  trem 
bling  lips,  but  struggling  to  be  calm: 

"Where  is  Jason?"  Burnham  recovered  quickly. 

"Why,  I  don't  believe  he  is  very  well,"  he  said 
with  gentle  carelessness.  "I'm  going  over  now  to 
see  him.  I'll  be  back  in  a  minute."  Wondering 
and  more  than  ever  uneasy,  Burnham  went  on, 
while  the  girl  unconsciously  followed  him  to  the 
door,  looking  after  him  and  almost  on  the  point 
of  wringing  her  hands.  In  the  boy's  room  Burn- 
ham  found  an  old  dress-suit  case  packed  and 
placed  on  the  study  table.  On  it  was  a  pencil- 
scribbled  note  to  one  of  his  room-mates : 

"I'll  send  for  this  later,"  it  read,  and  that  was 
all. 

Jason  was  gone. 


XXV 

'"pHE  little  capital  sits  at  the  feet  of  hills  on 
the  edge  of  the  Blue-grass,  for  the  Kentucky 
River  that  sweeps  past  it  has  brought  down  those 
hills  from  the  majestic  highlands  of  the  Cumber 
land.  The  great  railroad  of  the  State  had  to  bore 
through  rock  to  reach  the  place  and  clangs  impu 
dently  through  it  along  the  main  street.  For 
many  years  other  sections  of  the  State  fought  to 
wrest  this  fountain-head  of  law  and  government 
from  its  moorings  and  transplant  it  to  the  heart 
of  the  Blue-grass,  or  to  the  big  town  on  the  Ohio, 
because,  as  one  claimant  said: 

"You  had  to  climb  a  mountain,  swim  a  river, 
or  go  through  a  hole  to  get  to  it." 

This  geographical  witticism  cost  the  claimant  his 
eternal  political  life,  and  the  capital  clung  to  its 
water,  its  wooded  heaps  of  earth,  and  its  hole  in 
the  gray  wall.  Not  only  hills  did  the  river  bring 
down  but  birds,  trees,  and  even  mountain  mists, 
and  from  out  the  black  mouth  of  that  hole  in  the 
wall  and  into  those  morning  mists  stole  one  day  a 
long  train  and  stopped  before  the  six  great  gray 
pillars  of  the  historic  old  State-house.  Out  of  this 
train  climbed  a  thousand  men,  with  a  thousand 

232 


THE  HEART  OF  THE  HILLS 

guns,  and  the  mists  might  have  been  the  breath 
of  the  universal  whisper: 

"The  mountaineers  are  here!" 

Of  their  coming  Jason  had  known  for  some  time 
from  Arch  Hawn,  and  just  when  they  were  to 
come  he  had  learned  from  Steve.  The  boy  had 
not  enough  carfare  even  for  the  short  ride  of  less 
than  thirty  miles  to  the  capital,  so  he  rode  as  far 
as  his  money  would  carry  him  and  an  hour  before 
noon  found  him  striding  along  on  foot,  his  re 
volver  bulging  at  his  hip,  his  dogged  eyes  on  the 
frozen  turnpike.  It  was  all  over  for  him,  he 
thought  with  the  passionate  finality  of  youth — his 
college  career  with  its  ambitions  and  dreams.  He 
was  sorry  to  disappoint  Saint  Hilda  and  John 
Burnham,  but  his  pride  was  broken  and  he  was 
going  back  now  to  the  people  and  the  life  that  he 
never  should  have  left.  He  would  find  his  friends 
and  kinsmen  down  there  at  the  capital,  and  he 
would  play  his  part  first  in  whatever  they  meant 
to  do.  Babe  Honeycutt  would  be  there,  and  about 
Babe  he  had  not  forgotten  his  mother's  caution. 
He  had  taken  his  promise  back  from  Marjorie 
merely  to  be  free  to  act  in  a  double  emergency, 
but  Babe  would  be  safe  until  he  himself  was  sure. 
Then  he  would  tell  his  mother  what  he  meant  to 
do,  or  after  it  was  done,  and  as  to  what  she  would 
then  say  the  boy  had  hardly  a  passing  wonder, 
so  thin  yet  was  the  coating  with  which  civiliza 
tion  had  veneered  him.  And  yet  the  boy  almost 

233 


THE  HEART  OF  THE  HILLS 

smiled  to  himself  to  think  how  submerged  that 
childhood  oath  was  now  in  the  big  new  hatred  that 
had  grown  within  him  for  the  man  who  was 
threatening  the  political  life  of  his  people  and  his 
State — had  grown  steadily  since  the  morning 
before  he  had  taken  the  train  in  the  mountains 
for  college  in  the  Blue-grass.  On  the  way  he  had 
stayed  all  night  in  a  little  mountain  town  in  the 
foot-hills.  He  had  got  up  at  dawn,  but  already, 
to  escape  the  hot  rays  of  an  August  sun,  moun 
taineers  were  coming  in  on  horseback  from  miles 
and  miles  around  to  hear  the  opening  blast  of  the 
trumpet  that  was  to  herald  forth  their  wrongs. 
Under  the  trees  and  along  the  fences  they  picketed 
their  horses,  thousands  of  them,  and  they  played 
simple  games  patiently,  or  patiently  sat  in  the 
shade  of  pine  and  cedar  waiting,  while  now  and  then 
a  band  made  havoc  with  the  lazy  summer  air. 
And  there,  that  morning,  Jason  had  learned  from 
a  red-headed  orator  that  "a  vicious  body  of  de 
formed  Democrats  and  degenerate  Americans" 
had  passed  a  law  at  the  capital  that  would  rob 
the  mountaineers  of  the  rights  that  had  been 
bought  with  the  blood  of  their  forefathers  in  1776, 
1812,  1849,  and  l^S-  Every  ear  caught  the  em 
phasis  on  "rob"  and  "rights,"  the  patient  eye  of 
the  throng  grew  instantly  alert  and  keen  and 
began  to  burn  with  a  sinister  fire,  while  the  ear 
of  it  heard  further  how,  through  that  law,  their 
ancient  Democratic  enemies  would  throw  their 

234 


THE  HEART  OF  THE  HILLS 

votes  out  of  the  ballot-box  or  count  them  as  they 
pleased — even  for  themselves.  If  there  were  three 
Democrats  in  a  mountain  county — and  the 
speaker  had  heard  that  in  one  county  there  was 
only  one — that  county  could  under  that  law  run 
every  State  and  national  election  to  suit  itself. 
Would  the  men  of  the  mountains  stand  that? — 
No!  He  knew  them — that  orator  did.  He  knew 
that  if  the  spirit  of  liberty,  that  at  Jamestown  and 
Plymouth  Rock  started  blazing  its  way  over  a 
continent,  lived  unchanged  anywhere,  it  dwelt, 
however  unenlightened  and  unenlightening,  in  a 
heart  that  for  an  enemy  was  black  with  hate,  red 
with  revenge,  though  for  the  stranger,  white  and 
kind;  that  in  an  eagle's  isolation  had  kept  strung 
hard  and  fast  to  God,  country,  home;  that  ticking 
clock-like  for  a  century  without  hurry  or  pause 
was  beginning  to  quicken  at  last  to  the  march- 
rhythm  of  the  world — the  heart  of  the  Southern 
hills.  Now  the  prophecy  from  the  flaming  tongue 
of  that  red-headed  orator  was  coming  to  pass,  and 
the  heart  of  the  Kentucky  hills  was  making  answer. 
It  was  just  before  noon  when  the  boy  reached 
the  hill  overlooking  the  capital.  He  saw  the 
gleam  of  the  river  that  came  down  from  the 
mountains,  and  the  home-thrill  of  it  warmed  him 
from  head  to  foot.  Past  the  cemetery  he  went, 
with  a  glimpse  of  the  statue  of  Daniel  Boone  rising 
above  the  lesser  dead.  A  little  farther  down  was 
the  castle-like  arsenal  guarded  by  soldiers,  and  he 

235 


THE  HEART  OF  THE  HILLS 

looked  at  them  curiously,  for  they  were  the  first  he 
had  ever  seen.  Below  him  was  the  gray,  gloomy 
bulk  of  the  penitentiary,  which  was  the  State 
building  that  he  used  to  hear  most  of  in  the 
mountains.  About  the  railway  station  he  saw  men 
slouching  whom  he  knew  to  belong  to  his  people, 
but  no  guns  were  now  in  sight,  for  the  moun 
taineers  had  checked  them  at  the  adjutant-gen 
eral's  office,  and  each  wore  a  tag  for  safe-keeping 
in  his  button-hole.  Around  the  Greek  portico 
of  the  capitol  building  he  saw  more  soldiers 
lounging,  and  near  a  big  fountain  in  the  State- 
house  yard  was  a  Gatling-gun  which  looked  too 
little  to  do  much  harm.  Everywhere  were  the 
stern,  determined  faces  of  mountain  men,  walking 
the  streets  staring  at  things,  shuffling  in  and  out  of 
the  buildings;  and,  through  the  iron  pickets  of  the 
yard  fence,  Jason  saw  one  group  cooking  around  a 
camp-fire.  A  newspaper  man  was  setting  his 
camera  for  them  and  the  boy  saw  a  big  bearded 
fellow  reach  under  his  blanket.  The  photographer 
grasped  his  instrument  and  came  flying  through 
the  iron  gate,  crying  humorously,  "Excuse  me /" 

And  then  Jason  ran  into  Steve  Hawn,  who 
looked  at  him  with  mild  wonder  and,  without  a 
question,  drawled  simply: 

"I  kind  o'  thought  you'd  be  along." 

"Is  grandpap  here?"  asked  the  boy,  and  Steve 
shook  his  head. 

"He  was  too  po'ly — but  thar's  more  Hawns  and 

236 


THE  HEART  OF  THE  HILLS 

Honeycutts  in  town  than  you  kin  shake  a  stick  at, 
an*  they're  walkin'  round  hyeh  jes  like  brothers. 
Hello,  hyeh's  one  now!" 

Jason  turned  to  see  big  Babe  Honeycutt,  who, 
seeing  him,  paled  a  little,  smiled  sheepishly,  and, 
without  speaking,  moved  uneasily  away.  Whereat 
Steve  laughed. 

"Looks  like  Babe  is  kind  o'  skeered  o'  you  fer 
some  reason —  Hello,  they're  cominM" 

A  group  had  gathered  on  the  brick  flagging  be 
tween  the  frozen  fountain  and  the  Greek  portico 
of  the  old  capitol,  and  every  slouching  figure  was 
moving  toward  it.  Among  them  Jason  saw  Hawns 
and  Honeycutts — saw  even  his  old  enemy,  "little 
Aaron"  Honeycutt,  and  he  was  not  even  surprised, 
for  in  a  foot-ball  game  with  one  college  on  the 
edge  of  the  Blue-grass,  he  had  met  a  pair  of  en 
vious,  hostile  eyes  from  the  side-lines  and  he  knew 
then  that  little  Aaron,  too,  had  gone  away  to 
school.  From  the  habit  of  long  hostility  now, 
Jason  swerved  to  the  other  edge  of  the  crowd. 
From  the  streets,  the  boarding-houses,  the  ancient 
Capitol  Hotel,  gray,  too,  as  a  prison,  from  the 
State  buildings  in  the  yard,  mountaineers  were 
surging  forth  and  massing  before  the  capitol  steps 
and  around  the  big  fountain.  Already  the  Demo 
crats  had  grown  hoarse  with  protest  and  epithet. 
It  was  an  outrage  for  the  Republicans  to  bring 
down  this  "mountain  army  of  intimidationists" 
— and  only  God  knew  what  they  meant  to  do  or 

237 


THE  HEART  OF  THE  HILLS 

might  do.  The  autocrat  might  justly  and  legally 
unseat  a  few  Republicans,  to  be  sure,  but  one  open 
belief  was  that  these  "unkempt  feudsmen  and 
outlaws"  would  rush  the  legislative  halls,  shoot 
down  enough  Democrats  to  turn  the  Republican 
minority,  no  matter  how  small,  into  a  majority 
big  enough  to  enforce  the  ballot-proven  will  of  the 
people.  Wild,  pale,  horrified  faces  began  to  ap 
pear  in  the  windows  of  the  houses  that  bordered 
the  square  and  in  the  buildings  within  the  yard — 
perhaps  they  were  going  to  do  it  now.  Every 
soldier  stiffened  where  he  stood  and  caught  his  gun 
tightly,  and  once  more  the  militia  colonel  looked 
yearningly  at  the  Gatling-gun  as  helpless  as  a  fire 
cracker  in  the  midst  of  the  crowd,  and  then  im 
ploringly  to  the  adjutant-general,  who  once  again 
smiled  and  shook  his  head.  If  sinister  in  purpose, 
that  mountain  army  was  certainly  well  drilled  and 
under  the  dominant  spirit  of  some  amazing  leader 
ship,  for  no  sound,  no  gesture,  no  movement  came 
from  it.  And  then  Jason  saw  a  pale,  dark  young 
man,  the  secretary  of  state,  himself  a  mountain 
man,  rise  above  the  heads  of  the  crowd  and  begin 
to  speak. 

"You  are  not  here  as  revolutionists,  criminals, 
or  conspirators,  because  you  are  loyal  to  govern 
ment  and  law." 

The  words  were  big  and  puzzling  to  the  untu 
tored  ears  that  heard  them,  but  a  grim,  enigmati 
cal  smile  was  soon  playing  over  many  a  rugged  face. 

238 


THE  HEART  OF  THE  HILLS 

"You  are  here  under  your  God-given  bill  of 
rights  to  right  your  wrongs  through  petitions  to  the 
legislators  in  whose  hands  you  placed  your  liber 
ties  and  your  laws.  And  to  show  how  non-par 
tisan  this  meeting  is,  I  nominate  as  chairman  a 
distinguished  Democrat  and  ex-Confederate  sol 
dier." 

And  thereupon,  before  Jason's  startled  eyes,  rose 
none  other  than  Colonel  Pendleton,  who  silently 
swept  the  crowd  with  his  eyes. 

"I  see  from  the  faces  before  me  that  the  legis 
lators  behind  me  shall  not  overturn  the  will  of  the 
people,"  he  said  quietly  but  sonorously,  and  then, 
like  an  invocation  to  the  Deity,  the  dark  young 
mountaineer  slowly  read  from  the  paper  in  his  hand 
how  they  were  all  peaceably  assembled  for  the 
common  good  and  the  good  of  the  State  to  avert 
the  peril  hovering  over  its  property,  peace,  safety, 
and  happiness.  How  they  prayed  for  calmness, 
prudence,  wisdom;  begged  that  the  legislators 
should  not  suffer  themselves  to  be  led  into  the 
temptation  of  partisan  pride  or  party  predilec 
tion;  besought  them  to  remember  that  their  own 
just  powers  were  loaned  to  them  by  the  people  at 
the  polls,  and  that  they  must  decide  the  people's 
will  and  not  their  own  political  preference;  im 
plored  them  not  to  hazard  the  subversion  of  that 
supreme  law  of  the  land;  and  finally  begged  them 
to  receive,  and  neither  despise  nor  spurn,  their 
earnest  petition,  remonstrance,  but  preserve  and 

239 


THE  HEART  OF  THE  HILLS 

promote  the  safety  and  welfare  and,  above  all,  the 
honor  of  the  commonwealth  committed  to  their 
keeping. 

There  was  no  applause,  no  murmur  even  of  ap 
proval — stern  faces  had  only  grown  sterner,  hard 
eyes  harder,  and  that  was  all.  Again  the  mountain 
secretary  of  state  rose,  started  to  speak,  and 
stopped,  looking  over  the  upturned  faces  and  to 
ward  the  street  behind  them;  and  something  in  his 
look  made  every  man  who  saw  it  turn  his  head.  A 
whisper  started  on  the  outer  edge  of  the  crowd  and 
ran  backward,  and  men  began  to  tiptoe  and  crane 
their  necks.  A  tall  figure  was  entering  the  iron 
gateway — and  that  whisper  ran  like  a  wind 
through  the  mass,  the  whisper  of  a  hated  name. 
The  autocrat  was  coming.  The  mountaineers 
blocked  his  royal  way  to  the  speaker's  chair  behind 
them,  but  he  came  straight  on.  His  cold,  strong, 
crafty  face  was  suddenly  and  fearlessly  uplifted 
when  he  saw  the  hostile  crowd,  and  a  half-scornful 
smile  came  to  his  straight  thin  lips.  A  man  behind 
him  put  a  detaining  hand  on  his  shoulder,  but  he 
shook  it  off  impatiently.  Almost  imperceptibly 
men  swerved  this  way  and  that  until  there  was  an 
open  way  through  them  to  the  State-house  steps, 
and  through  that  human  lane,  nearly  every  man  of 
which  was  at  that  moment  longing  to  take  his  life, 
the  autocrat  strode,  meeting  every  pair  of  eyes 
with  a  sneer  of  cold  defiance.  Behind  him  the  lane 
closed;  the  crowd  gasped  at  the  daring  of  the  man 

240 


THE  HEART  OF  THE  HILLS 

and  slowly  melted  away.  The  mountain  secre 
tary  followed  him  into  the  Senate  with  the  resolu 
tions  he  had  just  read,  and  the  autocrat,  still  with 
that  icy  smile,  received  and  passed  them — into 
oblivion. 

That  night  the  mountain  army  disappeared  as 
quickly  as  it  had  come,  on  a  special  train  through 
that  hole  in  the  wall  and  with  a  farewell  salute  of 
gun  and  pistol  into  the  drum-tight  air  of  the  little 
capital.  But  a  guard  of  two  hundred  stayed, 
quartered  in  boarding-houses  and  the  executive 
buildings,  and  hung  about  the  capitol  with  their 
arms  handy,  or  loitered  about  the  contest-board 
meetings  where  the  great  "steal"  was  feared.  So 
those  meetings  adjourned  to  the  city  hall  where  the 
room  was  smaller,  admission  more  limited,  and 
which  was,  as  the  Republicans  claimed,  a  Demo 
cratic  arsenal.  Next  day  the  Republicans  asked 
for  three  days  more  for  testimony  and  were  given 
three  hours  by  the  autocrat.  The  real  fight  was 
now  on,  every  soul  knew  it,  and  the  crisis  was  at 
hand. 

And  next  morning  it  came,  when  the  same  bold 
figure  was  taking  the  same  way  to  the  capitol.  A 
rifle  cracked,  a  little  puff  of  smoke  floated  from  a 
window  of  a  State  building,  and  on  the  brick  flag 
ging  the  autocrat  sank  into  a  heap. 

The  legislature  was  at  the  moment  in  session. 
The  minority  in  the  House  was  on  edge  for  the 
next  move.  The  secretary  was  droning  on  and 

241 


THE  HEART  OF  THE  HILLS 

beating  time,  for  the  autocrat  was  late  that  morn 
ing,  but  he  was  on  his  way.  Cool,  wary,  steeled 
to  act  relentlessly  at  the  crucial  moment,  his  hand 
was  within  reach  of  the  prize,  and  the  play  of  that 
master-hand  was  on  the  eve  of  a  master-stroke. 
Two  men  hurried  into  the  almost  deserted  square, 
the  autocrat  and  his  body-guard,  a  man  known  in 
the  annals  of  the  State  for  his  ready  use  of  knife 
or  pistol.  The  rifle  spoke  and  the  autocrat  bent 
double,  groaned  harshly,  clutched  his  right  side, 
and  fell  to  his  knees.  Men  picked  him  up,  the 
building  emptied,  and  all  hurried  after  the  throng 
gathering  around  the  wounded  man.  There  was 
the  jostling  of  bodies,  rushing  of  feet,  the  crowding 
of  cursing  men  to  the  common  centre  of  excite 
ment.  A  negro  pushed  against  a  white  man. 
The  white  man  pulled  his  pistol,  shot  him  dead, 
and  hardly  a  look  was  turned  that  way.  The 
doors  of  the  old  hotel  closed  on  the  wounded  man, 
his  friends  went  wild,  and  chaos  followed.  It  was 
a  mountain  trick,  they  cried,  and  a  mountaineer 
had  turned  it.  The  lawless  hillsmen  had  come 
down  and  brought  their  cowardly  custom  of  am 
bush  with  them.  The  mountain  secretary  of 
state  was  speeding  away  from  the  capitol  at  the 
moment  the  shot  was  fired,  and  that  was  a  favorite 
trick  of  alibi  in  the  hills.  That  shot  had  come 
from  his  window.  Within  ten  minutes  the  terri 
fied  governor  had  ringed  every  State  building 
with  bayonets  and  had  telegraphed  for  more 

242 


THE  HEART  OF  THE  HILLS 

militia.  Nobody,  not  even  the  sheriff,  could  enter 
to  search  for  the  assassin:  what  else  could  this 
mean  but  that  there  was  a  conspiracy — that  the 
governor  himself  knew  of  the  plot  to  kill  and  was 
protecting  the  slayer?  About  the  State-house, 
even  after  the  soldiers  had  taken  possession,  stood 
rough-looking  men,  a  wing  of  the  army  of  intimi 
dation.  A  mob  was  forming  at  the  hotel,  and 
when  a  company  of  soldiers  was  assembled  to  meet 
it,  a  dozen  old  mountaineers,  looking  in  the  light 
of  the  camp-fires  like  the  aged  paintings  of  pio 
neers  on  the  State-house  walls,  fell  silently  and 
solemnly  in  line  with  Winchesters  and  shot-guns. 
The  autocrat's  bitterest  enemies,  though  unregret- 
ting  the  deed,  were  outraged  at  the  way  it  was 
done,  and  the  rush  of  sympathy  in  his  wake  could 
hardly  fail  to  achieve  his  purpose  now.  That 
night  even,  the  Democratic  members  tried  to  de 
cide  the  contest  in  the  autocrat's  favor.  That 
night  the  governor  adjourned  the  legislature  to  a 
mountain  town,  and  next  morning  the  legislators 
found  their  chambers  closed.  They  tried  to  meet 
at  hotel,  city  hall,  court-house;  and  solons  and 
soldiers  raced  through  the  streets  and  never  could 
the  solons  win.  But  at  nightfall  they  gathered 
secretly  and  declared  the  autocrat  governor  of  the 
commonwealth.  And  the  wild  rumor  was  that 
the  wounded  man  had  passed  before  his  name  was 
sealed  by  the  legislative  hand,  and  that  the  feet 
of  a  dead  man  had  been  put  into  a  living  one's 

243 


THE  HEART  OF  THE  HILLS 

shoes.  That  night  the  news  flashed  that  one 
mountaineer  as  assassin  and  a  mountain  boy  as 
accomplice  had  been  captured  and  were  on  the 
way  to  jail.  And  the  assassin  was  Steve  and  the 
boy  none  other  than  Jason  Hawn. 


244 


XXVI 

officer  pushed  Jason  up  the  steps  of  the 
car  with  one  hand  clutched  in  the  collar  of 
the  boy's  coat.  Steve  Hawn  followed,  handcuffed, 
and  as  the  second  officer  put  his  foot  on  the  first 
step,  Steve  flashed  around  and  brought  both  of  his 
huge  manacled  fists  down  on  the  man's  head, 
knocking  him  senseless  to  the  ground. 

"Git,  Jason!"  he  yelled,  but  the  boy  had  already 
got.  Feeling  the  clutch  on  his  coat  collar  loosen 
suddenly,  he  had  torn  away  and,  without  looking 
back  even  to  see  what  the  crashing  blow  was  that 
he  heard,  leaped  from  the  moving  train  into  the 
darkness  on  the  other  side  of  the  train.  One  shot 
that  went  wild  followed  him,  but  by  the  time  Steve 
was  subdued  by  the  blow  of  a  pistol  butt  and  the 
train  was  stopped,  Jason  was  dashing  through  a 
gloomy  woodland  with  a  speed  that  he  had  never 
equalled  on  a  foot-ball  field.  On  top  of  a  hill  he 
stopped  for  a  moment  panting  and  turned  to  listen. 
There  were  no  sounds  of  pursuit,  the  roar  of  the 
train  had  started  again,  and  he  saw  the  lights  of 
it  twinkling  on  toward  the  capital.  He  knew  they 
would  have  bloodhounds  on  his  trail  as  soon  as 
possible;  that  every  railway-station  agent  would 
have  a  description  of  him  and  be  on  the  lookout 

245 


THE  HEART  OF  THE  HILLS 

for  him  within  a  few  hours;  and  that  his  mother's 
house  would  be  closely  watched  that  night:  so, 
gathering  his  breath,  he  started  in  the  long,  steady 
stride  of  his  foot-bail  training  across  the  fields  and, 
a  fugitive  from  justice,  fled  for  the  hills.  The 
night  was  crisp,  the  moon  was  not  risen,  and  the 
frozen  earth  was  slippery,  but  he  did  not  dare  to 
take  to  the  turnpike  until  he  saw  the  lights  of 
farm-houses  begin  to  disappear,  and  then  he 
climbed  the  fence  into  the  road  and  sped  swiftly 
on.  Now  and  then  he  would  have  to  leap  out  of 
the  road  again  and  crouch  close  behind  the  fence 
when  he  heard  the  rattle  of  some  coming  vehicle, 
but  nothing  overtook  him,  and  when  at  last  he 
had  the  dark  silent  fields  and  the  white  line  of  the 
turnpike  all  to  himself  he  slowed  into  a  swift  walk. 
Before  midnight  he  saw  the  lights  of  his  college 
town  ahead  of  him  and  again  he  took  to  the  fields 
to  circle  about  it  and  strike  the  road  again  on  the 
other  side  where  it  led  on  toward  the  mountains. 
But  always  his  eyes  were  turned  leftward  toward 
those  town  lights  that  he  was  leaving  perhaps  for 
ever  and  on  beyond  them  to  his  mother's  home. 
He  could  see  her  still  seated  before  the  fire  and 
staring  into  it,  newly  worn  and  aged,  and  tearless; 
and  he  knew  Mavis  lay  sleepless  and  racked  with 
fear  in  her  little  room.  By  this  time  they  all  must 
have  heard,  and  he  wondered  what  John  Burnham 
was  thinking,  and  Gray,  and  then  with  a  stab  at 
his  heart  he  thought  of  Marjorie.  He  wondered 

246 


THE  HEART  OF  THE  HILLS 

if  she  had  got  his  good-by  note — the  taking  back 
of  his  promise  to  her.  Well,  it  was  all  over  now. 
The  lights  fell  behind  him,  the  moon  rose,  and 
under  it  he  saw  again  the  white  line  of  the  road.  He 
was  tired,  but  he  put  his  weary  feet  on  the  frozen 
surface  and  kept  them  moving  steadily  on.  At 
the  first  cock-crow,  he  passed  the  house  where  he 
had  stayed  all  night  when  he  first  rode  to  the  Blue- 
grass  on  his  old  mare.  A  little  later  lights  began 
once  more  to  twinkle  from  awakening  farm-houses, 
The  moon  paled  and  a  whiter  light  began  to  steal 
over  the  icy  fields.  Here  was  the  place  where  he 
and  the  old  mare  had  seen  for  the  first  time  a  rail 
road  train.  Hunger  began  to  gnaw  within  him 
when  he  saw  the  smoke  rising  from  a  negro  cabin 
down  a  little  lane,  and  he  left  the  road  and  moved 
toward  it.  At  the  bars  which  let  into  a  little  barn 
yard  an  old  negro  was  milking  a  cow,  and  when,  at 
the  boy's  low  cry  of  "Hello!"  he  rose  to  his  feet,  a 
ruse  came  to  Jason  quickly. 

"Seen  any  chestnut  hoss  comin'  along  here?" 

The  old  man  shook  his  head. 

"I  jist  got  up,  son." 

"Well,  he  got  away  from  me  an5  I  reckon  he's 
gone  back  toward  home.  I  started  before  break 
fast — can  I  get  a  bite  here?" 

It  looked  suspicious — a  white  man  asking  a 
negro  for  food,  and  Jason  had  learned  enough  in 
the  Blue-grass  to  guess  the  reason  for  the  old  dar 
ky's  hesitation,  for  he  added  quickly: 


THE  HEART  OF  THE  HILLS 

"I  don't  want  to  walk  all  the  way  back  to  that 
white  house  where  I  was  goin'  to  get  something  to 
eat." 

A  few  minutes  later  the  boy  was  devouring  corn- 
bread  and  bacon  so  ravenously  that  again  he  saw 
suspicion  in  the  old  darky's  eyes,  and  for  that 
reason  when  he  struck  the  turnpike  again  he  turned 
once  more  into  the  fields.  The  foot-hills  were  in 
sight  now,  and  from  the  top  of  a  little  wooded  emi 
nence  he  saw  the  beginning  of  the  dirt  road  and 
he  almost  shouted  his  gladness  aloud.  An  hour 
later  he  was  on  top  of  the  hill  whence  he  and  his 
old  mare  had  looked  first  over  the  land  of  the  Blue- 
grass,  and  there  he  turned  to  look  once  more.  The 
sun  was  up  now  and  each  frozen  weed,  belated 
corn-stalk,  and  blade  of  grass  caught  its  light, 
shattered  it  into  glittering  bits,  and  knit  them  into 
a  veil  of  bewildering  beauty  for  the  face  of  the  yet 
sleeping  earth.  The  lad  turned  again  to  the  white 
breasts  of  his  beloved  hills.  The  nation's  army 
could  never  catch  him  when  he  was  once  among 
them — and  now  Jason  smiled. 


248 


XXVII 

T)  ACK  at  the  little  capital,  the  Pennyroyal  gov- 
ernor  sat  pat  behind  thick  walls  and  the  mus 
kets  of  a  thousand  men.  The  militia,  too,  re 
mained  loyal,  and  the  stacking  up  of  ammunition 
in  the  adjutant-generars  office  went  merrily  on. 
The  dead  autocrat  was  reverently  borne  between 
two  solid  walls  of  living  people  to  the  little  ceme 
tery  on  the  high  hill  overlooking  the  river  and  with 
tribute  of  tongue  and  pen  was  laid  to  rest,  but 
beneath  him  the  struggle  kept  on.  Mutual  offers 
of  compromise  were  mutually  refused  and  the  dual 
government  went  on.  The  State-house  was  barred 
to  the  legislators.  To  test  his  authority  the  gov 
ernor  issued  a  pardon — the  Democratic  warden  of 
the  penitentiary  refused  to  recognize  it.  A  com 
pany  of  soldiers  came  from  his  own  Pennyroyal 
home  and  the  wing  of  the  mountain  army  still 
hovered  nigh.  Meanwhile  companies  of  militia 
were  drafted  for  service  under  the  banner  of  the 
dead  autocrat.  The  governor  ate  and  slept  in  the 
State-house — never  did  he  leave  it.  Once  more  a 
Democratic  mob  formed  before  the  square  and  the 
Gatling-gun  dispersed  it.  The  President  at  Wash 
ington  declined  to  interfere. 

249 


THE  HEART  OF  THE  HILLS 

Then  started  the  arrests.  It  was  declared  that 
the  fatal  shot  came  from  the  window  of  the  office 
of  the  pale,  dark  young  secretary  of  state,  and 
that  young  mountaineer  was  taken — with  a  pardon 
from  the  governor  in  his  pocket;  his  brother,  a  cap 
tain  of  the  State  guard,  the  ex-secretary  of  state, 
also  a  mountain  man,  and  still  another  moun 
taineer  were  indicted  as  accessories  before  the  fact 
and  those  indictments  charged  complicity  to  the 
Pennyroyal  governor  himself.  And  three  other 
men  who  were  found  in  the  executive  building  were 
indicted  for  murder  along  with  Steve  and  Jason 
Hawn.  Indeed,  the  Democrats  were  busy  un 
earthing,  as  they  claimed,  a  gigantic  Republican 
conspiracy.  No  less  than  one  hundred  thousand 
dollars  was  offered  as  a  reward  for  the  conviction 
of  the  murderers,  and  the  Republican  cry  was  that 
with  such  a  sum  it  was  possible  to  convict  even 
the  innocent.  In  turn,  Liberty  Leagues  were  even 
formed  throughout  the  State  to  protect  the  inno 
cent,  and  lives  and  property  were  pledged  to  that 
end,  but  the  ex-secretary  of  state  fled  for  refuge 
across  the  Ohio,  and  the  governor  over  there  re 
fused  to  give  him  up. 

The  Democrats  held  forth  at  the  Capitol  Hotel 
— the  Republicans  at  the  executive  building.  The 
governor  sent  arms  from  the  State  arsenal  to  his 
mountain  capital.  Two  speakers  were  always  on 
hand  in  the  Senate,  and  war  talk  once  again  be 
came  rife.  There  was  a  heavy  guard  of  soldiers  at 

250 


THE  HEART  OF  THE  HILLS 

every  point  in  the  Capitol  Square,  there  were  sen 
tries  at  the  governor's  mansion,  and  the  rumor  was 
that  the  militia  would  try  to  arrest  the  lieutenant- 
governor  who  now  was  successor  to  the  autocrat. 
So,  to  guard  him,  special  police  were  sworn  in — 
police  around  the  hotel,  police  in  the  lobby,  police 
patrolling  the  streets  day  and  night;  a  system  of 
signals  was  formed  to  report  suspicious  move 
ments  of  troops,  and  more  men  were  stationed  at 
convenient  windows  and  in  dark  alleyways,  armed 
with  pistols,  but  with  rifles  and  shot-guns  close  at 
hand,  while  the  police  station  was  full  of  arms  and 
ammunition.  To  the  courts  it  was  at  last  agreed 
that  the  whole  matter  should  go,  and  there  was 
panting  peace  for  a  while. 

A  curious  pall  overhung  the  college  the  morning 
of  Jason's  flight  for  the  hills.  The  awful  news 
spread  from  lip  to  lip,  hushing  shouts  and  quelling 
laughter.  The  stream  of  students  moved  into  the 
chapel  with  little  noise — a  larger  stream  than  usual, 
for  the  feeling  was  that  there  would  be  comment 
from  the  old  president.  A  common  seriousness 
touched  the  face  of  every  teacher  on  the  platform 
and  deepened  the  seriousness  of  the  young  faces 
that  looked  expectantly  upward.  In  the  centre 
of  the  freshman  corner  one  seat  only  was  vacant, 
and  that  to  John  Burnham  suggested  the  empti 
ness  of  even  more  than  death.  Among  the  girls 
one  chair,  too,  yawned  significantly,  for  Mavis  was 
not  there  and  the  two  places  might  have  been  side 


THE  HEART  OF  THE  HILLS 

by  side,  so  close  was  the  mute  link  between  them. 
But  no  word  of  Jason  reached  any  curious  ear, 
and  only  a  deeper  feeling  in  the  old  president's 
voice  when  it  was  lifted,  and  a  deeper  earnestness 
in  his  prayer  that  especial  guidance  might  now  be 
granted  the  State  in  the  crisis  it  was  passing 
through,  showed  that  the  thought  of  all  hearts  was 
working  alike  in  his.  At  noon  the  news  of  Jason's 
escape  and  flight  spread  like  fire  through  town  and 
college — then  news  that  bloodhounds  were  on  his 
trail,  that  the  trail  led  to  the  hills,  and  that  a 
quick  capture  was  certain.  Before  night  the  name 
of  the  boy  was  on  the  lips  of  the  State  and  for  a 
day  at  least  on  the  lips  of  the  nation. 

The  night  before,  John  Burnham  had  gone  down 
to  the  capital  to  see  Jason.  All  that  day  he  had 
been  hardly  able  to  keep  his  mind  on  book  or  stu 
dent,  all  day  he  had  kept  recalling  how  often  the 
boy  had  asked  him  about  this  or  that  personage 
in  history  who  had  sought  to  win  liberty  for  his 
people  by  slaying  with  his  own  hand  some  tyrant. 
He  knew  what  part  politics,  the  awful  disregard  of 
human  life,  and  the  revengeful  spirit  of  the  moun 
tains  had  played  in  the  death  of  the  autocrat,  but 
he  knew  also  that  if  there  was  in  that  mountain 
army  that  had  gone  to  the  capital  the  fearful,  mis 
taken,  higher  spirit  of  the  fanatic  it  was  in  the 
breast  of  Jason  Hawn.  He  believed,  however, 
that  in  the  boy  the  spirit  was  all  there  was,  and 
that  the  deed  must  have  been  done  by  some  hand 

252 


THE  HEART  OF  THE  HILLS 

that  had  stolen  the  cloak  of  that  spirit  to  conceal  a 
malicious  purpose.  Coming  out  of  his  class-room, 
he  had  seen  Gray,  whose  face  showed  that  he  was 
working  with  the  same  bewildering,  incredible 
problem.  Outside  Marjorie  had  halted  him  and 
tremblingly  told  him  of  Jason's  long-given  prom 
ise  and  how  he  had  taken  it  back;  and  so  as  he 
drove  to  the  country  that  afternoon  his  faith  in 
Jason  was  miserably  shaken  and  a  sickening  fear 
for  the  boy  possessed  him.  He  was  hardly  aware 
he  had  reached  his  own  gate,  so  lost  in  thought 
was  he  all  the  way,  until  his  horse  of  its  own  accord 
stopped  in  front  of  it,  and  then  he  urged  it  on  with 
a  sudden  purpose  to  go  to  Jason's  mother.  On 
top  of  the  hill  he  stopped  again,  for  Marjorie's 
carriage,  was  turning  into  the  lane  that  led  to 
Martha  Hawn's  house.  His  kindly  purpose  had 
been  forestalled  and  with  intense  relief  he  turned 
back  on  his  heart-sick  way  homeward. 

With  Marjorie,  too,  it  had  been  a  sudden 
thought  to  go  to  Jason's  mother,  but  as  she  drew 
near  the  gate  she  grew  apprehensive.  She  had 
not  been  within  the  house  often  and  then  only  for  a 
moment  to  wait  for  Mavis.  She  had  always  been 
half-fearful  and  ill  at  ease  with  the  sombre-faced 
woman  who  always  searched  her  with  big  dark 
eyes  whose  listlessness  seemed  but  to  veil  mysteries 
and  hidden  fires.  As  she  was  getting  out  of  her 
carriage  she  saw  Martha  Hawn's  pale  face  at  the 
window.  She  expected  the  door  to  be  opened,  as 

253 


THE  HEART  OF  THE  HILLS 

she  climbed  the  steps,  but  it  was  not,  and  when 
she  timidly  knocked  there  was  no  bid  to  enter. 
She  was  even  about  to  turn  away  bewildered  and 
indignant  when  the  door  did  open  and  a  forbidding 
figure  stood  before  her 

"Mavis  has  gone  down  to  see  her  pappy." 

"Yes,  I  know — but  I  thought  I'd  come " 

She  halted  helplessly.  She  did  not  know  that 
knocking  was  an  unessential  formality  in  the  hills ; 
she  did  not  realize  that  it  was  her  first  friendly  call 
on  Martha  Hawn;  and  curiously  enough  the  moun 
tain  woman  became  at  that  moment  the  quicker 
of  the  two. 

"Come  right  in  and  set  down,"  she  said  with  a 
sudden  change  of  manner.  "Rest  yo'  hat  thar 
on  the  bed,  won't  you?" 

The  girl  entered,  her  rosy  face  rising  from  her 
furs,  and  she  seemed  to  flood  the  poor  little  room 
with  warmth  and  light  and  make  it  poor  indeed. 
She  sat  down  and  felt  the  deep  black  eyes  burning 
at  her  not  unkindly  now  and  with  none  of  her  own 
embarrassment,  for  she  had  expected  to  find  a 
woman  bowed  with  grief  and  she  found  her  un 
shaken,  stolid,  calm.  For  the  first  time  she  no 
ticed  that  Jason  had  got  his  eyes  and  his  brow 
from  his  mother,  and  now  her  voice  was  an  echo 
of  his. 

"They've  got  dogs  atter  my  boy,"  she  said 
simply. 

That  was  all  she  said,  but  it  started  the  girl's 
254 


THE  HEART  OF  THE  HILLS 

tears,  for  there  was  not  even  resentment  in  the 
voice — only  the  resignation  that  meant  a  life-long 
comradeship  with  sorrow.  Marjorie  had  tried  to 
speak,  but  tears  began  to  choke  her  and  she  turned 
her  face  to  hide  them.  She  had  come  to  comfort, 
but  now  she  felt  a  hand  patting  her  on  the  shoulder. 
"Why,  honey,  you  mustn't  take  on  that-a-way. 
Jason  wouldn't  want  nobody  to  worry  'bout  him — 
not  fer  a  minute.  They'll  never  ketch  him — never 
in  this  world.  An'  bless  yo'  dear  heart,  honey, 
this  ain't  nothin'.  Ever'thing  '11  come  out  all 
right.  Why,  I  been  used  to  killin'  an'  fightin'  an5 
trouble  all  my  life.  Jason  hain't  done  nothin'  he 
didn't  think  was  right — I  know  that — an'  if  hit 
was  right  I'm  glad  he  done  hit.  I  ain't  so  shore 
'bout  Steve,  but  the  Lord's  been  good  to  Steve 
fer  holdin'  off  his  avengin'  hand  even  this  long. 
Hit'll  all  come  out  right — don't  you  worry." 

Half  an  hour  later  the  girl  on  her  way  home 
found  Colonel  Pendleton  at  his  gate  on  horseback, 
apparently  waiting  for  some  one,  and,  looking 
back  through  the  carriage  window,  Marjorie  saw 
Gray  galloping  along  behind  her.  She  did  not 
stop  to  speak  with  the  colonel,  and  a  look  of  un 
easy  wonder  crossed  his  face  as  she  drove  by. 

"What's  the  matter  with  Marjorie?"  he  asked 
when  Gray  drew  nigh.  The  boy  shook  his  head 
worriedly. 

"She's  been  to  the  Hawns,"  he  said,  and  the 
255 


THE  HEART  OF  THE  HILLS 

colonel  looked  grave.  Twenty  minutes  later  Mrs. 
Pendleton  sat  in  her  library,  also  looking  grave. 
Marjorie  had  told  her  where  she  had  been  and 
why  she  had  gone,  and  the  mother,  startled  by  the 
girl's  wildness  and  distress,  had  barely  opened  her 
lips  in  remonstrance  when  Marjorie,  in  a  whirl 
wind  of  tears  and  defiance,  fled  to  her  room. 


256 


XXVIII 

through  the  snowy  mountains  Jason  went, 
keeping  fearlessly  now  to  the  open  road,  and 
telling  the  same  story  to  the  same  question  that 
was  always  looked,  even  when  not  asked,  by  every 
soul  with  whom  he  passed  a  word :  he  had  gone  to 
the  capital  when  the  mountain  people  went  down, 
he  had  been  left  behind,  and,  having  no  money, 
was  obliged  to  make  his  way  back  home  on  foot. 
Always  he  was  plied  with  questions,  but  news  of  the 
death  of  the  autocrat  had  not  yet  penetrated  that 
far.  Always  he  was  gladly  given  food  and  lodging, 
and  sometimes  his  host  or  some  horseman,  overtak 
ing  him,  would  take  him  up  behind  and  save  him 
many  a  weary  mile.  Boldly  he  went  until  one 
morning  he  stood  on  the  icy,  glittering  crest  of 
Pine  Mountain  and  looked  down  a  white  wooded 
ravine  to  the  frozen  Cumberland  locked  motion 
less  in  the  valley  below.  He  could  see  the  mouth 
of  Hawn  Branch  and  the  mouth  of  Honeycutt 
Creek — could  see  the  spur,  the  neck  of  which 
once  separated  Mavis's  home  from  his — and  with 
a  joyful  throb  and  a  quickly  following  pang  he 
plunged  down  the  ravine.  Ahead  of  him  was  the 
house  of  a  Honeycutt  and  he  had  no  fear,  but  as 
he  swiftly  approached  it  along  the  river  road,  he 

257 


THE  HEART  OF  THE  HILLS 

saw  two  men,  strangers,  appear  on  the  porch  and 
instinctively  he  scudded  noiselessly  behind  a  great 
clump  of  evergreen  rhododendron  and  lay  flat  to 
the  frozen  earth.  A  moment  later  they  rode  by 
him  at  a  walk  and  talking  in  low,  earnest  tones. 

"He's  sure  to  come  back  here,"  said  one,  "and 
it  won't  be  long  before  some  Honeycutt  will  give 
him  away.  This  peace  business  ain't  skin-deep 
and  a  five-dollar  bill  will  do  the  trick  for  us  and  I'll 
find  the  right  man  in  twenty-four  hours." 

The  other  man  grunted  an  assent  and  the  two 
rode  on.  Already  they  were  after  Jason;  they 
had  guessed  where  he  would  go,  and  the  boy  knew 
that  what  he  had  heard  from  these  men  was  true. 
When  he  rose  now  he  kept  out  of  the  road  and 
skirted  his  way  along  the  white  flanks  of  the  hills. 
Passing  high  up  the  spur  above  Hawn  Branch,  he 
could  see  his  grandfather's  house.  A  horse  was 
hitched  to  the  fence  and  a  man  was  walking  toward 
the  porch  and  the  lad  wondered  if  that  stranger, 
too,  could  be  on  his  trail.  On  upward  he  went 
until  just  below  him  he  could  see  the  old  circuit 
rider's  cabin  under  a  snow-laden  pine,  and  all  up 
and  down  the  Hawn  Creek  were  signs  of  activity 
from  the  outside  world.  Already  he  had  watched 
engineers  mapping  out  the  line  of  railway  up  the 
river.  He  had  seen  the  coming  of  the  railroad 
darkies  who  lived  in  shacks  like  cave-men,  who 
were  little  above  brutes  and  driven  like  slaves  by 
rough  men  in  blue  woollen  shirts  and  high-laced 

258 


THE  HEART  OF  THE  HILLS 

boots.  And  now  he  saw  that  old  Morton  Sanders' 
engineers  had  mapped  out  a  line  up  the  creek  of 
his  fathers;  that  the  darkies  had  graded  it  and 
their  wretched  shacks  were  sagging  drunkenly 
here  and  there  from  the  hill-sides.  Around  the 
ravine  the  boy  curved  toward  the  neck  of  the 
dividing  spur  and  half-unconsciously  toward  the 
little  creek  where  he  had  uncovered  his  big  vein  of 
coal,  and  there  where  with  hand,  foot,  and  pick  he 
had  toiled  so  long  was  a  black  tunnel  boring  into 
the  very  spot,  with  supporting  columns  of  wood 
and  a  great  pile  of  coal  at  its  gaping  mouth.  The 
robbery  was  under  way  and  the  boy  looked  on  with 
fierce  eyes  at  the  three  begrimed  and  coal-black 
ened  darkies  hugging  a  little  fire  near  by.  Cau 
tiously  he  backed  away  and  slipped  on  down  to  a 
point  where  he  could  see  his  mother's  old  home  and 
Steve  Hawn's,  and  there  he  almost  groaned.  One 
was  desolate,  deserted,  the  door  swinging  from  one 
hinge,  the  chimney  fallen,  every  paling  of  the 
fence  gone  and  the  roof  of  the  little  barn  caved  in. 
Smoke  was  coming  from  Steve  Hawn's  chimney, 
and  in  the  porch  were  two  or  three  slatternly  negro 
women.  The  boy  knew  the  low,  sinister  meaning 
of  their  presence  on  public  works;  and  these  blacks 
ate,  slept,  and  plied  their  trade  in  the  home  of 
Mavis  Hawn!  All  the  old  rebellion  and  rage  of 
his  early  years  came  back  to  him  and  boiled  the 
more  fiercely  that  his  mother's  home  could  never 
be  hers,  nor  Mavis's  hers — for  a  twofold  reason 

259 


THE  HEART  OF  THE  HILLS 

now — again.  It  was  nearing  noon  and  the  boy's 
hunger  was  a  keen  pain.  Rapidly  he  went  down 
the  crest  of  the  spur  until  his  grandfather's  house 
was  visible  beneath  him.  The  horse  at  the  front 
fence  was  gone,  but  as  he  slipped  toward  the  rear 
of  the  house  he  looked  into  the  stable  to  make 
sure  that  the  horse  was  not  there.  And  then  a 
moment  later  he  reached  the  back  porch  and  noise 
lessly  opened  the  door — so  noiselessly  that  the 
old  man  sitting  in  front  of  the  fire  did  not  hear. 

"Grandpap,"  he  called  tremulously. 

The  old  man  started  and  turned  his  great 
shaggy  head.  He  said  nothing,  but  it  seemed  to 
the  boy  that  from  under  his  bushy  brows  a  flash 
of  lightning  was  searching  him  from  head  to  foot. 

"Well,"  he  rumbled  scathingly,  "you've  been 
a-playin'  hell,  hain't  ye?  I  mought  'a'  knowed 
whut  would  happen  with  Honeycutts  a-leadin' 
that  gang.  I  tol'  'em  to  go  up  thar  an'  fight  open 
— man  to  man.  They  don't  know  nothin'  but 
way-layin'.  A  thousand  of  'em  shootin'  one  pore 
man  in  the  back!  Whut  've  I  been  tryin'  to 
1'arn  ye  since  you  was  a  baby?  God  knows  I 
wanted  him  killed.  Why,"  thundered  the  old 
man  savagely,  "didn't  you  kill  him  face  to  face?" 

The  boy's  chin  had  gone  up  proudly  while  the 
old  man  talked  and  now  there  was  a  lightning- 
flash  in  his  own  eyes. 

"I  tried  to  git  him  face  to  face  fer  three  days. 
I  knowed  he  had  a  gun.  I  was  aimin'  to  give  him 

260 


THE  HEART  OF  THE  HILLS 

a  chance  fer  his  life.     But  seemed  like  thar  wasn't 
no  other " 

"Stop!"  thundered  the  old  man  again,  "don't 
you  say  a  word." 

There  was  a  loud  "Hello"  at  the  gate. 

"Thar  they  air  now,"  said  the  old  man  with  a 
break  in  his  voice,  and  as  he  rose  from  his  chair 
he  said  sternly:  "An'  stay  right  where  you  air." 

Through  the  window  the  boy  saw  the  two  horse 
men  who  had  passed  him  in  the  road  that  morning. 
His  eyes  grew  wild  and  he  began  to  tremble  vio 
lently,  but  lie  stood  still.  The  old  man  went  to  the 
door. 

"Hyeh  he  is,  men,"  he  shouted;  "come  in 
hyeh  an'  git  him." 

Then  he  turned  to  the  boy. 

"You  air  goin'  back  thar  an'  stand  yore  trial 
like  a  man." 

The  boy  leaped  wildly  for  the  door,  but  the  old 
man  caught  him  and  with  one  hand  held  him  as 
though  he  were  a  child,  and  thus  the  two  as 
tonished  detectives  from  the  Blue-grass  found 
them,  and  they  gaped  at  the  mystery,  for  they 
knew  the  kinship  of  the  two.  One  pulled  from  his 
pocket  a  pair  of  handcuffs,  and  old  Jason  glared  at 
him  with  contempt. 

"Don't  you  put  them  things  on  this  boy — he's 
my  grandson.  An',  anyhow,  ef  you  two  full- 
grown  men  can't  handle  a  boy  without  'em  I'll  go 
'long  with  you  myself." 

261 


THE  HEART  OF  THE  HILLS 

Shamed,  the  man  put  the  irons  back  in  his 
pocket,  and  the  other  one  started  to  speak  but 
stopped.  The  old  man  turned  hospitably  toward 
his  unwelcome  guests. 

"I  reckon  all  o'  ye  want  a  bite  to  eat  afore  ye 
start.  Mammy!" 

The  door  to  the  kitchen  opened  and  the  aged 
grandmother  halted  there,  peering  through  brass- 
rimmed  spectacles  at  her  husband  and  the  two 
men,  and  catching  sight  last  of  little  Jason  stand 
ing  in  the  corner — trapped,  white-faced,  silent. 
Instantly  she  caught  the  meaning  of  the  scene, 
and  with  a  little  cry  she  tottered  over  to  the  boy 
and  putting  both  her  hands  on  his  breast  began  to 
pat  him  gently.  Then,  still  helplessly  patting  him 
with  one  hand,  she  turned  to  her  husband. 

"You  hain't  goin'  to  give  the  boy  up,  Jason?" 
she  asked  plaintively,  and  the  old  man  swerved 
his  face  aside  and  nodded. 

"Git  up  somethin'  to  eat,  mammy,"  he  said 
with  rough  gentleness,  and  without  another  look 
or  word  she  turned  with  her  apron  at  her  eyes  to 
the  kitchen  door.  The  old  man  glared  out  the 
window,  the  boy  sank  on  a  chair  at  the  corner  of 
the  fireplace,  and  in  the  face  of  one  of  the  men 
there  was  sympathy.  The  other,  shifty  of  eyes 
and  crafty  of  face,  spoke  harshly. 

"How  much  o'  this  reward  do  you  want?" 

Old  Jason  wheeled  and  the  other  man  cried 
sternly : 

262 


THE  HEART  OF  THE  HILLS 

"Shut  up,  you  fool!" 

"You  lop-yeared  rattlesnake!"  began  old  Jason, 
and  with  a  contemptuous  gesture  dismissed  him. 
"How  much  is  that  reward?" 

The  other  man  hesitated,  and  then  with  the 
thought  that  the  fact  would  soon  be  world-known 
answered  promptly: 

"For  the  capture  and  conviction  of  the  murderer 
— one  hundred  thousand  dollars." 

The  old  man  gasped  at  the  amazing  sum;  his 
face  worked  suddenly  with  convulsive  rage  and 
calmed  in  a  sudden  way  that  made  the  watching 
boy  know  that  something  was  going  to  happen. 
Quietly  old  Jason  walked  over  to  the  fire  and  stood 
with  his  back  to  it.  He  pulled  out  his  pipe,  filled 
it,  and  turned  again  to  the  mantel-piece  as  though 
to  reach  for  a  match,  but  instead  whipped  two  big 
revolvers  from  it  and  wheeled. 

"Hands  up,  men!"  he  said  quietly.  For  a 
moment  the  two  were  paralyzed,  but  the  thick-set 
man,  whose  instincts  were  quicker,  obeyed  slowly. 
The  other  one  started  to  laugh. 

"Up!"  called  the  old  man  sternly,  levelling  one 
pistol,  and  the  laugh  stopped,  the  man's  face  paled, 
and  his  hands  flew  high. 

"Git  their  guns  fer  a  minute,  Jasie,  an*  put  em' 
up  hyeh  on  the  mantel.  A  hundred  thousand  dol 
lars  is  a  leetle  too  much." 

The  kitchen  door  opened  and  again  the  old 
woman  peered  through  her  spectacles  within. 


THE  HEART  OF  THE  HILLS 

"I  knowed  you  wouldn't  do  it,  pap,"  she  said. 
"Dinner's  ready — come  on  in  now,  men,  an'  git  a 
bite  to  eat." 

The  thin  man's  shifty  eyes  roved  to  his  com 
panion,  who  had  almost  begun  to  smile  and  who 
muttered  to  himself  as  he  rose: 

"Well,  by  God!" 

In  utter  silence  the  meal  went  through,  except 
that  the  old  man,  with  his  pistols  crossed  in  his 
lap,  kept  urging  his  guests  to  the  full  of  their  appe 
tites.  Jason  ate  like  a  wolf. 

"Git  a  poke,  mammy,"  said  old  Jason  when  the 
boy  dropped  knife  and  fork,  "an'  fill  it  full  o' 
victuals." 

And  still  with  a  smile  the  thick-set  man  watched 
her  gather  food  from  the  table,  put  it  in  a  paper 
sack,  and  hand  it  to  the  boy. 

"Now  git,  Jasie — these  men  air  goin'  to  stay 
hyeh  with  me  fer'  bout  an  hour,  an'  then  they 
can  go  atter  ye  ef  they  think  they  can  ketch 
ye." 

With  no  word  at  all  even  of  good-by,  little  Jason 
noiselessly  disappeared.  A  few  minutes  later,  sit 
ting  in  front  of  the  fire  with  his  pistols  still  in  his 
lap,  old  Jason  Hawn  explained: 

"Fer  a  mule,  a  Winchester,  and  a  hundred  dol 
lars  I  can  git  most  any  man  in  this  country  killed. 
Fer  a  thousand  I  reckon  I  could  git  hit  proved 
that  I  had  stole  a  side  o'  bacon  or  a  hoss.  Fer  a 
hundred  thousand  I  could  git  hit  proved  that  the 

264 


THE  HEART  OF  THE  HILLS 

President  of  these  United  States  killed  that  feller — 
an'  human  natur'  is  about  the  same,  I  reckon, 
ever'whar.  You  don't  git  no  grandson  o'  mine 
when  thar's  a  bunch  o'  greenbacks  like  that  tied 
to  the  rope  that's  a-pinin'  to  hang  him." 

An  hour  later  he  told  his  guests  that  they  could 
be  on  their  way,  though  he'd  be  mighty  glad  to 
have  'em  stay  all  night — and  they  went,  both 
chagrined,  the  thin  one  raging  within  but  obedient 
and  respectful  without,  while  the  other,  chuckling 
at  his  companion's  discomfiture  and  no  little  at 
his  own,  watched  with  a  smile  the  old  fellow's 
method  of  speeding  his  parting  guests. 

"Git  on  yo'  bosses,  men,"  he  suggested,  and 
when  the  two  stepped  from  the  porch  he  replaced 
his  own  guns  on  the  mantel  and  followed  them 
with  both  of  their  guns  in  one  hand  and  a  Win 
chester  in  the  other.  While  they  were  mounting 
he  walked  to  the  corner  of  the  yard,  laid  both 
their  pistols  on  the  fence,  walked  back  to  the 
porch,  and  stood  there  with  his  Winchester  in  the 
hollow  of  his  arm. 

"Ride  by  thar,  men,  and  git  yo'  guns;  an'  I 
reckon,"  he  suggested  casually  but  convincingly, 
"when  you  pick  'em  up  you  better  not  even  look 
back — nary  one  o'  ye" 

"Can  you  beat  it?"  murmured  the  quiet  man, 
while  the  other  snarled  helplessly. 

"An'  when  you  git  down  to  town  you  can  tell 
the  sheriff.  He's  a  Honeycutt,  an'  he  won't  come 

265 


THE  HEART  OF  THE  HILLS 

atter  me,  but  I'll  go  down  thar  to  him  an'  pay  my 
leetle  fine." 

Again  the  man  said: 

"Well,  by  God!" 

And  as  the  two  rode  on,  the  old  fellow's  voice 
followed  them: 

"Come  ag'in,  men— I  wish  ye  both  well." 

Two  nights  later  St.  Hilda,  reading  by  her  fire, 
heard  a  tap  on  her  window-pane,  and,  looking  up, 
saw  Jason's  pale  face  outside.  She  ran  to  the 
door,  and  the  boy  stumbled  wearily  toward  the 
threshold  and  stopped  with  a  look  of  fear  and  pite 
ous  appeal.  She  stretched  out  her  arms  to  him, 
and,  broken  at  last,  the  boy  sank  at  her  feet,  and, 
with  his  head  in  her  lap,  sobbed  out  of  his  heart 
the  truth. 


266 


XXIX 

GT.  HILDA  herself  took  Jason  back  to  the  Blue- 
grass,  took  him  to  the  gray  frowning  prison  at 
the  capital,  and  with  streaming  eyes  watched  the 
iron  gates  close  between  them.  Then  she  went 
home,  sent  for  John  Burnham,  and  within  an  hour 
both  started  working  for  the'  boy's  freedom,  for 
Jason  must  keep  on  with  his  studies,  and,  with 
Steve  Hawn  in  jail,  must  help  his  mother.  Through 
Gray's  influence  Colonel  Pendleton,  and  through 
Marjorie's,  Mrs.  Pendleton  as  well,  offered  to  go 
sponsors  for  the  boy's  appearance  at  his  trial. 
The  man  from  the  Pennyroyal  who  sat  in  the  gov 
ernor's  chair,  and  even  the  successor  to  the  auto 
crat  who  was  trying  to  pre-empt  that  seat,  gave 
letters  to  help,  and  before  any  prison  pallor  could 
touch  the  boy's  sun-tanned  face  he  was  out  in  the 
open  air  once  more  on  bail.  And  when  old  Jason 
Hawn  in  the  mountains  heard  what  had  happened, 
he  laughed. 

"Well,  I  reckon  if  he's  indicted  only  fer  helpin 
Steve,  he  ain't  in  much  danger,  fer  they  can't  git 
him  onless  they  git  Steve,  an*  if  thar  is  one  man 
no  money  can  ketch — that  man  is  slick  Steve 
Hawn.  An'  lemme  tell  ye:  if  the  right  feller  was 
from  the  mountains  an'  only  mountain  folks 

267 


THE  HEART  OF  THE  HILLS 

knows  it,  they  hain't  nuver  goin'  to  find  him  out. 
Mebbe  I  was  a  leetle  hasty — mebbe  I  was." 

After  one  talk  with  John  Burnham,  the  old 
president  suggested  that  Jason  drop  down  into  the 
"kitchen"  and  go  on  with  his  books,  but  against 
this  plan  Jason  shook  his  head.  He  was  going  to 
raise  Steve  Hawn's  tobacco  crop  on  shares  with 
Colonel  Pendleton,  he  would  study  at  home,  and 
John  Burnham  saw,  moreover,  that  the  boy 
shrank  from  the  ordeal  of  college  associations  and 
any  further  hurt  to  his  pride. 

The  pores  of  the  earth  were  beginning  to  open 
now  to  the  warm  breath  of  spring.  Already  Martha 
Hawn  and  Mavis  had  burnt  brush  on  the  soil  to  kill 
the  grass,  and  Jason  ploughed  the  soil  and  harrowed 
it  with  minute  care,  and  sowed  the  seed  broadcast 
by  hand.  Within  two  weeks  lettuce-like  leaves  were 
peeping  through  the  ground,  and  Jason  and  Mavis 
stretched  canvas  over  the  beds  to  hold  in  the  heat 
of  day  and  hold  off  the  frost  of  night.  Three 
weeks  later  came  the  first  ploughing;  then  there 
was  ploughing  and  ploughing  and  ploughing  again, 
and  weeding  and  weeding  and  weeding  again. 
Just  before  ripening,  the  blooms  came — blooms 
that  were  for  all  the  word  like  the  blooms  of  pur 
ple  rhododendron  back  in  the  hills,  and  then  the 
task  of  suckering  began.  Sometimes  Mavis  would 
help  and  the  mother  started  in  to  work  like  a  man, 
but  the  boy  had  absorbed  from  his  environment  its 
higher  ideal  of  woman  and,  all  he  could,  he  kept 

268 


THE  HEART  OF  THE  HILLS 

both  of  them  out  of  the  tobacco  field.  This  made 
it  all  the  harder  for  him  and  there  was  no  let-up  to 
his  toil.  Just  the  same,  Jason  put  in  every  spare 
moment  on  his  books,  and  in  Mavis's  little  room, 
which  had  been  turned  over  to  him,  his  lamp 
burned  far  into  every  night.  When  he  struck  a 
knotty  point  or  problem,  he  would  walk  over  to 
John  Burnham's  for  help,  or  the  school-master,  as 
he  went  to  and  fro  from  his  college  duties,  would 
find  the  boy  on  a  fence  by  the  roadside  waiting 
with  his  question  for  him.  All  the  summer  Jason 
toiled.  When  there  was  no  hard  labor,  always  he 
had  to  fight  the  tobacco  worms  with  spray,  and 
hand,  and  boot-heel,  until  the  rich  dark-green  of 
the  leaves  took  on  a  furry,  velvety  sheen — until  at 
ripening  they  turned  to  a  bright  gold  and  were 
ready  for  the  chisel-bladed,  double-edged  knife 
with  which  the  plants  are  cut  close  to  the  ground. 
Then  they  must  be  hung  on  upright  tobacco  sticks, 
stalks  upward,  to  wilt  under  the  August  sun,  and 
then  on  to  be  housed  in  Colonel  Pendleton's  great 
barns  to  dry  within  their  slitted  walls.  Several 
times  during  the  summer  Arch  Hawn  came  by 
and  looked  at  the  boy's  work  with  keen,  approving 
eye  and  in  turn  won  a  falling-ofF  in  Jason's  old 
prejudice  against  him;  for  Arch  had  built  a  church 
in  the  county-seat  in  the  mountains,  had  helped 
the  county  schools,  was  making  ready  to  help 
the  mountain  people  fight  unjust  claims  to  their 
lands,  and,  himself  charged  with  helping  to  bring 

269 


THE  HEART  OF  THE  HILLS 

the  mountain  army  down  to  the  capital,  stood 
boldly  ready  to  surrender  to  the  call  of  the  law 
— he  even  meant  to  help  Steve  Hawn  in  his 
trouble,  ,for  Steve,  after  an  examining  trial,  had 
been  remanded  back  to  prison  without  bail:  and 
he  was  going  to  help  Jason  in  his  trial,  which 
would  closely  follow  Steve's. 

All  summer,  too,  Gray  and  Marjorie  were  rid 
ing  or  driving  past  the  tobacco  field,  and  Jason 
and  Mavis,  when  they  saw  either  or  both  coming, 
would  move  to  the  end  of  the  field  that  was  far 
thest  from  the  turnpike  and,  turning  their  backs, 
would  pretend  not  to  see.  Sometimes  the  two 
mountaineers  would  be  caught  where  avoidance 
was  impossible,  and  then  Marjorie  and  Gray  would 
call  out  cheerily  and  with  a  smile — to  get  in  return 
from  the  children  of  the  soil  a  grave,  silent  nod  of 
the  head  and  a  grave,  answering  glance  of  the  eye 
— for  neither  knew  the  part  the  Blue-grass  boy  and 
girl  had  played  in  the  getting  of  Jason's  freedom, 
until  one  late  afternoon  of  the  closing  summer 
days,  for  John  Burnham  had  been  asked  to  keep 
the  matter  a  secret.  But  Steve  Hawn  had  learned 
from  his  lawyer  and  had  told  his  wife  Martha 
when  she  came  to  visit  him  in  prison;  and  that 
late  afternoon  she  was  in  the  tobacco  field  when 
Mavis  and  Jason  moved  to  the  other  end  and 
turned  their  backs  as  Marjorie  rode  by  on  her  way 
home  and  Gray  an  hour  later  galloped  past  the 
other  way. 

270 


THE  HEART  OF  THE  HILLS 

"I  reckon,"  she  said  quietly  to  Jason,  "ef  you 
knowed  whut  that  boy  an'  gal  has  been  a-doin' 
fer  ye,  you  wouldn't  be  a-actin'  that-a-way." 

And  then  she  explained  and  started  for  home. 
Both  stood  still — silent  and  dumfounded — and 
only  Mavis  spoke  at  last. 

"Both  of  us  beholden  to  both  of  'em." 

Jason  made  no  answer,  but  bent  to  his  work. 
When  Mavis,  too,  started  for  home  he  stayed  be 
hind  without  explanation,  and  when  she  was  out 
of  sight  he  climbed  the  fence  at  the  edge  of  the 
woods,  and  sat  there  looking  toward  the  sunset 
fading  behind  Marjorie's  home. 


271 


XXX 

tobacco  was  dry  now,  for  the  autumn  was 
-*-  at  hand.  It  must  come  to  case  yet,  then  it 
must  be  stripped,  the  grades  picked  out,  and  left 
then  in  bulk  for  sale.  With  all  this  Jason  had 
nothing  to  do.  He  had  done  good  work  on  his 
books  during  the  spring  and  autumn,  such  good 
work  that,  with  the  old  president's  gladly  given 
permission,  he  was  allowed  a  special  examination 
which  admitted  him  with  but  one  or  two  "condi 
tions"  into  his  own  sophomore  class.  Then  was 
there  the  extraordinary  spectacle  of  a  college  boy 
— quiet,  serious,  toiling — making  the  slow  way 
toward  the  humanities  under  charge  of  murder  and 
awaiting  trial  for  his  life.  And  that  course  Jason 
Hawn  followed  with  a  dignity,  reticence,  and  self- 
effacement  that  won  the  steadily  increasing  re 
spect  of  every  student  and  teacher  within  the 
college  walls.  A  belief  in  his  innocence  became 
wide-spread,  and  that  coming  trial  began  to  be  re 
garded  in  time  as  a  trial  of  the  good  name  of  the 
college  itself.  A  change  of  venue  had  been  obtained 
and  the  trial  was  to  be  held  in  the  college  town. 
It  came  in  mid-December.  Jason,  neatly  dressed, 
sat  beside  his  lawyer,  and  his  mother,  in  black, 
and  Mavis  sat  quite  near  him.  In  the  first  row 


THE  HEART  OF  THE  HILLS 

among  the  spectators  were  Gray  and  Marjorie 
and  Colonel  Pendleton.  Behind  them  was  John 
Burnham,  and  about  him  and  behind  him  were 
several  other  professors,  while  the  room  was 
crowded  with  students.  The  boy  was  pale  when 
he  went  to  the  witness-chair,  and  the  court-room 
was  as  still  as  a  wooded  ravine  in  the  hills  when 
he  began  to  tell  his  story,  which  apparently  no 
other  soul  than  his  own  lawyer  had  ever  heard; 
indeed  it  was  soon  apparent  that  even  he  had 
never  heard  it  all. 

"I  went  down  there  to  kill  him,"  the  boy  said 
calmly,  though  his  eyes  were  two  deep  points  of 
fire — so  calmly,  indeed,  that  as  one  man  the  audi 
ence  gasped  audibly — "an'  I  reckon  all  of  ye  know 
why.  My  grandpap  al'ays  told  me  the  meanest 
thing  a  man  could  do  was  to  shoot  another  man 
in  the  back.  I  tried  for  three  days  to  git  face  to 
face  with  him.  I  knowed  he  had  a  gun  all  the 
time,  an'  I  meant  to  give  him  a  fair  chance  fer  his 
life.  That  mornin'  I  heard  through  the  walls  of 
the  boardin'-house  I  was  in — an'  I  didn't  know 
who  was  doin'  the  talkin' — that  the  man  was 
goin'  to  be  waylaid  right  then  an'  I  run  over  to 
that  ex-ec-u-tive  building  to  reach  Steve  Hawn  an' 
keep  him  anyways  from  doin'  the  shootin'.  I 
heard  the  shots  soon  as  I  got  inside  the  door,  and 
purty  soon  I  met  Steve  runnin'  down  the  stairs. 
'I  didn't  do  it!'  Steve  says,  'but  any  feller  from 
the  mountains  better  git  away  from  here.9  We 

273 


THE  HEART  OF  THE  HILLS 

run  out  through  the  yard  an'  got  into  Steve's 
buggy  an'  travelled  the  road  till  we  was  ketched — 
an'  that's  all  I  know." 

And  that  was  all.  No  other  fact,  no  other  ad 
mission,  no  other  statement  could  the  rigid,  bitter 
cross-examination  bring  from  the  lad's  lips  than 
just  those  words;  and  those  words  alone  the  jury 
carried  to  their  room.  Nor  were  they  long  gone. 
Back  they  came,  and  again  the  court-room  was 
as  the  holding  in  of  one  painful  breath,  and  then 
tears  started  in  the  eyes  of  the  woman  in  black, 
the  mountain  girl  by  her  side,  and  in  Marjorie's, 
and  the  court-room  broke  into  stifled  cheer,  for 
the  words  all  heard  were: 

"Not  guilty." 

At  the  gate  of  the  college  a  crowd  of  students,  led 
by  Gray  Pendleton,  awaited  Jason.  The  boy  was 
borne  aloft  on  their  shoulders  through  the  yard 
amid  the  cheers  of  boys  and  girls — was  borne  on 
into  the  gymnasium,  and  before  the  lad  could  quite 
realize  what  was  going  on  he  heard  himself  cheered 
as  captain  of  the  foot-ball  team  for  the  next  year, 
and  was  once  more  borne  out,  around  and  aloft 
again — while  John  Burnham  with  a  full  heart,  and 
Mavis  and  Marjorie  with  wet  eyes,  looked  smil 
ingly  on.  A  week  later  Arch  Hawn  persuaded  the 
boy  to  allow  him  to  lend  him  money  to  complete 
his  course  and  a  week  later  still  it  was  Christmas 
again.  Christmas  night  there  was  a  glad  gather- 

274 


THE  HEART  OF  THE  HILLS 

ing  at  Colonel  Pendleton's.  Even  St.  Hilda  was 
there,  and  she  and  John  Burnham,  and  Colonel 
Pendleton  and  Mrs.  Pendleton,  Gray  and  Mavis, 
and  Marjorie  and  Jason,  danced  the  Virginia  reel 
together,  and  all  the  stars  were  stars  of  Bethle 
hem  to  Mavis  and  Jason  Hawn  as  they  crunched 
across  the  frozen  fields  at  dawn  for  home. 


275 


XXXI 

^T^HE  pale,  dark  young  secretary  of  state  had 
-*-  fled  from  the  capital  in  a  soldier's  uniform 
and  had  been  captured  with  a  pardon  in  his  pocket 
from  the  Pennyroyal  governor,  which  the  authori 
ties  refused  to  honor.  The  mountain  ex-secretary 
of  state  had  fled  across  the  Ohio,  to  live  there  an 
exile.  The  governor  from  the  Pennyroyal  had 
carried  his  case  to  the  supreme  court  of  the  land, 
had  lost,  and  he,  too,  amid  the  condemnation  of 
friends  and  foes,  had  crossed  the  same  yellow  river 
to  the  protection  of  the  same  Northern  State. 
With  his  flight  the  troubles  at  the  capital  had 
passed  the  acute  crisis  and  settled  down  into  a  long, 
wearisome  struggle  to  convict  the  assassins  of  the 
autocrat.  During  the  year  the  young  secretary 
of  state  had  been  once  condemned  to  death,  once 
to  life  imprisonment,  and  was  now  risking  the 
noose  again  on  a  third  trial.  Jason  Hawn's  testi 
mony  at  his  own  trial,  it  was  thought,  would  help 
Steve  Hawn.  Indeed,  another  mountaineer,  Hi 
ram  Honeycutt,  an  uncle  to  little  Aaron,  was,  it 
seemed,  in  greater  danger  than  Steve,  but  the  sus 
pect  in  most  peril  was  an  auditor's  clerk  from  the 
Blue-grass;  so  it  looked  as  though  old  Jason's 

276 


THE  HEART  OF  THE  HILLS 

prophecy— that  the  real  murderer,  if  a  mountaineer, 
would  never  be  convicted — might  yet  come  true. 
The  autocrat  was  living  on  in  the  hearts  of  his  fol 
lowers  as  a  martyr  to  the  cause  of  the  people,  and 
a  granite  shaft  was  to  rise  in  the  little  cemetery 
on  the  river  bluff  to  commemorate  his  deeds  and 
his  name.  His  death  had  gratified  the  blood-lust 
of  his  foes,  his  young  Democratic  successor  would 
amend  that  "infamous  election  law"  and  was 
plainly  striving  for  a  just  administration,  and  so 
bitterness  began  swiftly  to  abate,  tolerance  grew 
rapidly,  and  the  State  went  earnestly  on  trying  to 
cure  its  political  ills.  And  yet  even  while  John 
Burnham  and  his  like  were  congratulating  them 
selves  that  cool  heads  and  strong  hands  had 
averted  civil  war,  checked  further  violence,  and 
left  all  questions  to  the  law  and  the  courts,  the 
economic  poison  that  tobacco  had  been  spreading 
through  the  land  began  to  shake  the  common 
wealth  with  a  new  fever:  for  not  liberty  but  daily 
bread  was  the  farmer's  question  now. 

The  Big  Trust  had  cut  out  competitive  buyers, 
cut  down  prices  to  the  cost  of  production,  and  put 
up  the  price  of  the  tobacco  bag  and  the  plug.  So 
that  the  farmer  must  smoke  and  chew  his  own 
tobacco,  or  sell  it  at  a  loss  and  buy  it  back  again 
at  whatever  price  the  trust  chose  to  charge  him. 
Already  along  the  southern  border  of  the  State  the 
farmers  had  organized  for  mutual  protection  and 
the  members  had  agreed  to  plant  only  half  the 

277 


THE  HEART  OF  THE  HILLS 

usual  acreage.  When  the  non-members  planted 
more  than  ever,  masked  men  descended  upon 
them  at  night  and  put  the  raiser  to  the  whip  and 
his  barn  to  the  torch.  It  seemed  as  though  the  pas 
sions  of  men,  aroused  by  the  political  troubles  and 
getting  no  vent  in  action,  welcomed  this  new  outlet, 
and  already  the  night-riding  of  ku-klux  and  toll- 
gate  days  was  having  a  new  and  easy  birth.  And 
these  sinister  forces  were  sweeping  slowly  toward 
the  Blue-grass.  Thus  the  injection  of  this  new 
problem  brought  a  swift  subsidence  of  politics  in 
the  popular  mind.  It  caused  a  swift  withdrawal 
of  the  political  background  from  the  lives  of  the 
Pendletons  and  dwarfed  its  importance  for  the 
time  in  the  lives  of  the  Hawns,  for  again  the  fol 
lowing  spring  Colonel  Pendleton,  in  the  teeth  of 
the  coming  storm,  raised  tobacco,  and  so,  for  his 
mother,  did  Jason  Hawn. 

In  the  mountains,  meanwhile,  the  trend,  contra 
riwise,  was  upward — all  upward.  Railroads  were 
building,  mines  were  opening,  great  trees  were 
falling  for  timber.  Even  the  Hawns  and  Hon- 
eycutts  were  too  busy  for  an  actual  renewal  of 
the  feud,  though  the  casual  traveller  was  amazed 
to  discover  slowly  how  bitter  the  enmity  still  was. 
But  the  feud  in  no  way  checked  the  growth  going 
on  in  all  ways,  nor  was  that  growth  all  material. 
More  schools  than  St.  Hilda's  had  come  into 
the  hills  from  the  outside  and  were  doing  hardly 
less  effective  work.  County  schools,  too,  were  in- 

278 


THE  HEART  OF  THE  HILLS 

creasing  in  number  and  in  strength.  More  and 
more  mountain  boys  and  girls  were  each  year 
going  away  to  college,  bringing  back  the  fruits  of 
their  work  and  planting  the  seeds  of  them  at  home. 
The  log  cabin  was  rapidly  disappearing,  the  frame 
cottages  were  being  built  with  more  neatness  and 
taste,  and  garish  colors  were  becoming  things  of 
the  past.  Indeed,  a  quick  uplift  through  all  the 
mountains  was  perceptible  to  any  observant  eye 
that  had  known  and  knew  now  the  hills.  To  the 
law-makers  at  the  capital  and  to  the  men  of  law 
and  business  in  the  Blue-grass,  that  change  was 
plain  when  they  came  into  conflict  with  the  law 
yers  and  bankers  and  merchants  of  the  highlands, 
for  they  found  this  new  hillsman  shrewd,  resource 
ful,  quick-witted,  tenacious,  and  strong,  and  John 
Burnham  began  to  wonder  if  the  vigorous  type  of 
Kentuckian  that  seemed  passing  in  the  Blue-grass 
might  not  be  coming  to  a  new  birth  in  the  hills. 
He  smiled  grimly  that  following  spring  when 
he  heard  that  a  company  of  mountain  militia 
from  a  county  that  was  notorious  for  a  desperate 
feud  had  been  sent  down  to  keep  order  in  the  to 
bacco  lowlands;  he  kept  on  smiling  every  time  he 
heard  that  a  mountaineer  had  sold  his  coal  lands 
and  moved  down  to  buy  some  blue-grass  farm,  and 
wondering  how  far  this  peaceful  dispossessment 
might  go  in  time;  and  whether  a  fusion  of  these 
social  extremes  of  civilization  might  not  be  in  the 
end  for  the  best  good  of  the  State.  And  he  knew 

279 


THE  HEART  OF  THE  HILLS 

that  the  basis  of  his  every  speculation  about  the 
fortunes  of  the  State  rested  on  the  intertwining 
hand  of  fate  in  the  lives  of  Marjorie  and  Gray 
Pendleton  and  Mavis  and  Jason  Hawn. 


280 


XXXII 

TN  June,  Gray  Pendleton  closed  his  college  career 
as  he  had  gone  through  it — like  a  meteor — 
and  Jason  went  for  the  summer  to  the  mountains, 
while  Mavis  stayed  with  his  mother,  for  again 
Steve  Hawn  had  been  tried  and  convicted  and  re 
turned  to  jail  to  await  a  new  trial.  In  the  moun 
tains  Jason  got  employment  at  some  mines  below 
the  county-seat,  and  there  he  watched  the  incom 
ing  of  the  real  "furriners,"  Italians,  "Hunks,"  and 
Slavs,  and  the  uprising  of  a  mining  town.  He 
worked,  too,  in  every  capacity  that  was  open  to 
him,  and  he  kept  his  keen  eyes  and  keen  mind  busy 
that  he  might  know  as  much  as  possible  of  the 
great  machine  that  old  Morton  Sanders  would 
build  and  set  to  work  on  his  mother's  land.  And 
more  than  ever  that  summer  he  warmed  to  his 
uncle  Arch  Hawn  for  the  fight  that  Arch  was 
making  to  protect  native  titles  to  mountain  lands 
—a  fight  that  would  help  the  achievement  of  the 
purpose  that,  though  faltering  at  last,  was  still 
deep  in  the  boy's  heart. 

In  the  autumn,  when  he  went  back  to  college, 
Gray  had  set  off  to  some  Northern  college  for  a 
post-graduate  course  in  engineering  and  Marjorie 

281 


THE  HEART  OF  THE  HILLS 

had  gone  to  some  fashionable  school  in  the  great 
city  of  the  nation  for  the  finishing  touches  of  hats 
and  gowns,  painting  and  music,  and  for  a  wider 
knowledge  of  her  own  social  world.  That  autumn 
the  tobacco  trouble  was  already  pointing  to  a  crisis 
for  Colonel  Pendleton.  The  whip  and  lash  and 
the  destruction  of  seed-beds  had  been  ineffective, 
and  as  the  trust  had  got  control  of  the  trade,  the 
raisers  must  now  get  control  of  the  raw  leaf  in  the 
field  and  in  the  barn.  That  autumn  Jason  himself 
drifted  into  a  mass-meeting  of  growers  in  the 
court-house  one  day  on  his  way  home  from  college. 
An  orator  from  the  Far  West  with  a  shock  of  black 
hair  and  gloomy  black  brows  and  eyes  urged  a  gen 
eral  and  permanent  alliance  of  the  tillers  of  the 
soil.  An  old  white-bearded  man  with  cane  and 
spectacles  and  a  heavy  goatee  working  under  a 
chew  of  tobacco  tremulously  pleaded  for  a  pool 
ing  of  the  crops.  The  answer  was  that  all  would 
not  pool,  and  the  question  was  how  to  get  all  in. 
A  great-shouldered,  red-faced  man  and  a  bull- 
necked  fellow  with  gray,  fearless  eyes,  both  from 
the  southern  part  of  the  State,  openly  urged  the 
incendiary  methods  that  they  were  practising  at 
home — the  tearing  up  of  tobacco-beds,  burning  of 
barns,  and  the  whipping  of  growers  who  refused 
to  go  into  the  pool.  And  then  Colonel  Pendleton 
rose,  his  face  as  white  as  his  snowy  shirt,  and 
bowed  courteously  to  the  chairman. 

"These  gentlemen,  I  think,  are  beside  them- 
282 


THE  HEART  OF  THE  HILLS 

selves,"  he  said  quietly,  "and  I  must  ask  your  per 
mission  to  withdraw." 

Jason  followed  him  out  to  the  court-house  door 
and  watched  him,  erect  as  a  soldier,  march  down 
the  street,  and  he  knew  the  trouble  that  was  in 
store  for  the  old  gentleman,  for  already  he  had 
heard  similar  incendiary  talk  from  the  small  farm 
ers  around  his  mother's  home. 

The  following  June  Marjorie  and  Gray  Pendle- 
ton  brought  back  finishing  touches  of  dress,  man 
ner,  and  atmosphere  to  the  dazzled  envy  of  the 
less  fortunate,  in  spite  of  the  fact  that  both  bore 
their  new  claims  to  distinction  with  a  modesty 
that  would  have  kept  a  stranger  from  knowing 
that  they  had  ever  been  away  from  home.  Jason 
and  Mavis  were  still  at  the  old  university  when  the 
two  arrived.  To  the  mountaineers  all  four  had 
once  seemed  almost  on  the  same  level,  such  had 
once  been  the  comradeship  between  them,  but  now 
the  old  chasm  seemed  to  yawn  wider  than  ever  be 
tween  them,  and  there  was  no  time  for  it  to  close, 
if  closing  were  possible,  for  again  Jason  went  back 
to  the  hills — this  time  to  Morton  Sanders'  open 
ing  mines — and,  this  time,  Mavis  went  with  him  to 
teach  Hawns  and  Honeycutts  in  a  summer  school 
on  the  outskirts  of  the  little  mining  town.  Again 
for  Jason  the  summer  was  one  of  unflagging  work 
and  learning — learning  all  he  could,  all  the  time. 
He  had  discovered  that  to  get  his  land  back 
through  the  law,  he  must  prove  that  Arch  Hawn 

283 


THE  HEART  OF  THE  HILLS 

or  Colonel  Pendleton  not  only  must  have  known 
about  the  big  seam  of  coal,  not  only  must  have 
concealed  the  fact  of  their  knowledge  from  his 
mother  and  Steve  Hawn,  but,  in  addition,  must 
have  told  one  or  both,  with  the  purpose  of  fraud, 
that  the  land  was  worth  no  more  than  was  visible 
to  the  eye  in  timber  and  seams  of  coal  that  were 
known  to  all.  That  Colonel  Pendleton  could  have 
been  guilty  of  such  underhandedness  was  absurd. 
Moreover,  Jason's  mother  said  that  no  such  state 
ment  .had  been  made  to  her  by  either,  though  Steve 
had  sworn  readily  that  Arch  had  said  just  that 
thing  to  him.  But  Jason  began  to  believe  that 
Steve  had  lied,  and  Arch  Hawn  laughed  when  he 
heard  of  Jason's  investigations. 

"Son,  if  you  want  that  land  back,  or,  ruther, 
the  money  it's  worth,  you  git  right  down  to  work, 
learn  the  business,  and  dig  it  back  in  another  way." 

And  that  was  what  Jason,  half  unconsciously, 
was  doing.  And  yet,  with  all  the  ambition  that 
was  in  him,  his  interest  in  the  work,  his  love  for 
the  hills,  his  sense  of  duty  to  his  people  and  his 
wish  to  help  them,  the  boy  was  sorely  depressed 
that  summer,  for  the  talons  with  which  the  fate 
of  birth  and  environment  clutched  him  seemed  to 
be  tightening  now  again. 

The  trials  of  Steve  Hawn  and  of  Hiram  Hon- 
eycutt  for  the  death  of  the  autocrat  were  bring 
ing  back  the  old  friction.  Charges  and  counter 
charges  of  perjury  among  witnesses  had  freshened 

284 


THE  HEART  OF  THE  HILLS 

the  old  enmity  between  the  Hawns  and  the  Hon- 
eycutts.  Jason  himself  had  once  to  go  back  to  the 
Blue-grass  as  witness,  and  when  he  returned  he 
learned  that  the  charge  whispered  against  him, 
particularly  by  little  Aaron,  was  that  he  had  sworn 
falsely  for  Steve  Hawn  and  falsely  against  Hiram 
Honeycutt.  Again  Babe  Honeycutt  had  come 
back  from  the  West  and  had  quietly  slipped  out 
of  the  mountains  again,  and  Jason  was  led  to  be 
lieve  it  was  on  his  account.  So  once  more  the  old 
oath  began  to  weigh  heavily  upon  him,  for  every 
body  seemed  to  take  it  as  much  for  granted  that 
he  would  some  day  fulfil  that  oath  as  that,  after 
the  dark  of  the  moon,  that  moon  would  rise  again. 
Moreover,  fate  was  inexorably  pushing  him  and 
little  Aaron  into  the  same  channels  that  their 
fathers  had  followed  and  putting  on  each  the 
duty  and  responsibility  of  leadership.  And  Jason, 
though  shirking  nothing,  turned  sick  and  faint  of 
heart  and  was  glad  when  the  summer  neared  its 
close. 

Through  all  his  vacation  he  and  Mavis  had  seen 
but  little  of  each  other,  though  Mavis  lived  with 
the  old  circuit  rider  and  Jason  in  a  little  shack  on 
the  spur  above  her,  for  the  boy  was  on  the  night 
shift  and  through  most  of  the  day  was  asleep. 
Moreover,  both  were  rather  morose  and  brooding, 
each  felt  the  deep  trouble  of  the  other,  and  to  it 
each  paid  the  mutual  respect  of  silence.  How 
much  Mavis  knew,  Jason  little  guessed,  though  he 
was  always  vaguely  uneasy  under  the  constant 

285 


THE  HEART  OF  THE  HILLS 

search  of  her  dark  eyes,  and  often  he  would  turn 
toward  her  expecting  her  to  speak.  But  not  un 
til  the  autumn  was  at  hand  and  they  were  both 
making  ready  to  go  back  to  the  Blue-grass  did  she 
break  her  silence.  The  news  had  just  reached 
them  that  Steve  Hawn  had  come  clear  at  last  and 
was  at  home — and  Mavis  heard  it  with  little  ela 
tion  and  no  comment.  Next  day  she  announced 
calmly  that  she  was  not  going  back  with  Jason, 
but  would  stay  in  the  hills  and  go  on  with  her 
school.  Jason  stared  questioningly,  but  she  would 
not  explain — she  only  became  more  brooding  and 
silent  than  ever,  and  only  when  they  parted  one 
drowsy  day  in  September  was  the  thought  within 
her  betrayed: 

"I  reckon  maybe  you  won't  come  back  again." 
Jason  was  startled.  She  knew  then — knew  his 
discontent,  his  new  longing  to  break  the  fetters  of 
the  hills,  knew  even  that  in  his  dreams  Marjorie's 
face  was  still  shining  like  a  star.  "Course  I'm 
comin'  back,"  he  said,  with  a  little  return  of  his 
old  boyish  roughness,  but  his  eyes  fell  before  hers 
as  he  turned  hurriedly  away.  He  was  rolling  away 
from  the  hills,  and  his  mind  had  gone  back  to  her 
seated  with  folded  hands  and  unseeing  eyes  in 
the  old  circuit  rider's  porch,  dreaming,  thinking — 
thinking,  dreaming — before  he  began  fully  to  un 
derstand.  He  remembered  his  mother  telling  him 
how  unhappy  Mavis  had  been  the  summer  the  two 
were  alone  in  the  Blue-grass,  and  how  she  had  kept 
away  from  Marjorie  and  Gray  and  all  to  herself. 

286 


THE  HEART  OF  THE  HILLS 

He  recalled  Mavis  telling  him  bitterly  how  she  had 
once  overheard  some  girl  student  speak  of  her  as 
the  daughter  of  a  jail-bird.  He  began  to  see  that 
she  had  stayed  in  the  Blue-grass  that  summer  on 
his  mother's  account  and  on  her  account  would 
have  gone  back  with  him  again.  He  knew  that 
there  was  no  disloyalty  to  her  father  in  her  de 
cision,  for  he  knew  that  she  would  stick  to  him, 
jail-bird  or  whatever  he  was,  till  the  end  of  time. 
But  now  neither  her  father  nor  Jason's  mother 
needed  her.  Through  eyes  that  had  gained  a  new 
vision  in  the  Blue-grass  Mavis  had  long  ago  come 
to  see  herself  as  she  was  seen  there;  and  now  to 
escape  wounds  that  any  malicious  tongue  could 
inflict  she  would  stay  where  the  sins  of  fathers 
rested  less  heavily  on  the  innocent.  There  was,  to 
be  sure,  good  reason  for  Jason  to  feel  as  Mavis 
felt — he  had  been  a  jail-bird  himself — but  not  to 
act  like  her — no.  And  then  as  he  rolled  along  he 
began  to  wonder  what  part  Gray  might  be  playing 
in  her  mind  and  heart.  The  vision  of  her  seated 
in  the  porch  thinking — thinking — would  not  leave 
him,  and  a  pang  of  undefined  remorse  for  leaving 
her  behind  started  within  him.  She,  too,  had  out 
grown  his  and  her  people  as  he  had — perhaps  she 
was  as  rebellious  against  her  fate  as  he  was  against 
his  own,  but,  unlike  him,  utterly  helpless.  And 
suddenly  the  boy's  remorse  merged  into  a  sym 
pathetic  terror  for  the  loneliness  that  was  hers. 


287 


XXXIII 

]P\OWN  in  the  Blue-grass  a  handsome  saddle- 
^^^  horse  was  hitched  at  the  stile  in  front  of 
Colonel  Pendleton's  house  and  the  front  door  was 
open  to  the  pale  gold  of  the  early  sun.  Upstairs 
Gray  was  packing  for  his  last  year  away  from 
home,  after  which  he  too  would  go  to  Morton 
Sanders'  mines,  on  the  land  Jason's  mother  once 
had  owned.  Below  him  his  father  sat  at  his  desk 
with  two  columns  of  figures  before  him,  of  assets 
and  liabilities,  and  his  face  was  gray  and  his  form 
seemed  to  have  shrunk  when  he  rose  from  his 
chair;  but  he  straightened  up  when  he  heard  his 
boy's  feet  coming  down  the  stairway,  forced  a 
smile  to  his  lips,  and  called  to  him  cheerily.  To 
gether  they  walked  down  to  the  stile. 

"I'm  going  to  drive  into  town  this  morning, 
dad,"  said  Gray.  "Can  I  do  anything  for  you?" 

"No,  son — nothing — except  come  back  safe." 

In  the  distance  a  tree  crashed  to  the  earth  as 
the  colonel  was  climbing  his  horse,  and  a  low  groan 
came  from  his  lips,  but  again  he  quickly  recovered 
himself  at  the  boy's  apprehensive  cry. 

"Nothing,  son.  I  reckon  I'm  getting  too  fat  to 
climb  a  horse — good-by." 

288 


THE  HEART  OF  THE  HILLS 

He  turned  and  rode  away,  erect  as  a  youth  of 
twenty,  and  the  lad  looked  after  him  puzzled  and 
alarmed.  One  glance  his  father  had  turned  toward 
the  beautiful  woodland  that  had  at  last  been  turned 
over  to  axe  and  saw  for  the  planting  of  tobacco, 
and  it  was  almost  the  last  tree  of  that  woodland* 
that  had  just  fallen.  When  the  first  struck  the 
earth  two  months  before,  the  lad  now  recalled 
hearing  his  father  mutter: 

"This  is  the  meanest  act  of  my  life." 
Suddenly  now  the  boy  knew  that  the  act  was 
done  for  him — and  his  eyes  filled  as  he  looked 
after  the  retreating  horseman  upon  whose  shoul 
ders  so  much  secret  trouble  weighed.  And  when 
the  elder  man  passed  through  the  gate  and  started 
down  the  pike,  those  broad  shoulders  began  to 
droop,  and  the  lad  saw  him  ride  out  of  sight  with 
his  chin  close  to  his  breast.  The  boy  started  back 
to  his  packing,  but  with  a  folded  coat  in  his  hand 
dropped  in  a  chair  by  the  open  window,  looking 
out  on  the  quick  undoing  in  that  woodland  of  the 
Master's  slow  upbuilding  for  centuries,  and  he  be 
gan  to  recall  how  often  during  the  past  summer 
he  had  caught  his  father  brooding  alone,  or  figur 
ing  at  his  desk,  or  had  heard  him  pacing  the  floor 
of  his  bedroom  late  at  night;  how  frequently  he 
had  made  trips  into  town  to  see  his  lawyer,  how 
often  the  lad  had  seen  in  his  mail,  lately,  envelopes 
stamped  with  the  name  of  his  bank;  and,  above  all, 
how  often  the  old  family  doctor  had  driven  out 

289 


THE  HEART  OF  THE.  HILLS 

from  town,  and  though  there  was  never  a  com 
plaint,  how  failing  had  been  his  father's  health, 
and  how  he  had  aged.  And  suddenly  Gray  sprang 
to  his  feet,  ordered  his  buggy  and  started  for  town. 

Along  the  edge  of  the  bleeding  stumps  of  noble 
trees  the  colonel  rode  slowly,  his  thoughts  falling 
and  rising  between  his  boy  in  the  room  above  and 
his  columns  of  figures  in  the  room  below.  The  sac 
rilege  of  destruction  had  started  in  his  mind  years 
before  from  love  of  the  one,  but  the  actual  deed 
had  started  under  pressure  of  the  other,  and  now  it 
looked  as  though  each  motive  would  be  thwarted, 
for  the  tobacco  war  was  on  in  earnest  now,  and 
again  the  poor  old  commonwealth  was  rent  as  by  a 
forked  tongue  of  lightning.  And,  like  the  State, 
the  colonel  too  was  pitifully  divided  against  him 
self. 

Already  many  Blue-grass  farmers  had  pooled 
their  crops  against  the  great  tobacco  trust — already 
they  had  decided  that  no  tobacco  at  all  should  be 
raised  that  coming  year  just  when  the  colonel  was 
deepest  in  debt  and  could  count  only  on  his  to 
bacco  for  relief.  And  so  the  great-hearted  gentle 
man  must  now  go  against  his  neighbor,  or  go  to  de 
struction  himself  and  carry  with  him  his  beloved 
son.  Toward  noon  he  reined  in  on  a  little  knoll 
above  the  deserted  house  of  the  old  general,  the 
patriarchal  head  of  the  family — who  had  passed 
not  many  years  before — the  rambling  old  house, 
stuccoed  with  aged  brown  and  still  in  the  faithful 

290 


THE  HEART  OF  THE  HILLS 

clasp  of  ancient  vines.  The  old  landmark  had 
passed  to  Morton  Sanders,  and  on  and  about  it  the 
ruthless  hand  of  progress  was  at  work.  The  at 
mosphere  of  careless,  magnificent  luxury  was  gone. 
The  servants'  quarters,  the  big  hen-house,  the  old 
stables  with  gables  and  sunken  roofs,  the  stagger 
ing  fences,  the  old  blacksmith-shop,  the  wheelless 
windmill — all  were  rebuilt  or  torn  away.  Only  the 
arched  gate-way  under  which  only  thoroughbreds 
could  pass  was  left  untouched,  for  Sanders  loved 
horses  and  the  humor  of  that  gate-way,  and  the 
old  spring-house  with  its  green  dripping  walls.  No 
longer  even  were  the  forest  trees  in  the  big  yard 
ragged  and  storm-torn,  but  trimmed  carefully, 
their  wounds  dressed,  and  sturdy  with  a  fresh  lease 
on  life;  only  the  mournful  cedars  were  unchanged 
and  still  harping  with  every  passing  wind  the  same 
requiem  for  the  glory  that  was  gone.  With  an 
other  groan  the  old  colonel  turned  his  horse  toward 
home — the  home  that  but  for  the  slain  woodlands 
would  soon  pass  in  that  same  way  to  house  a 
Sanders  tenant  or  an  overseer. 

When  he  reached  his  front  door  he  heard  his 
boy  whistling  like  a  happy  lark  in  his  room  at  the 
head  of  the  stairway.  The  sounds  pierced  him 
for  one  swift  instant  and  then  his  generous  heart 
was  glad  for  the  careless  joy  of  youth,  and  instead 
of  going  into  his  office  he  slowly  climbed  the  stairs. 
When  he  reached  the  door  of  the  boy's  room,  he 
saw  two  empty  trunks,  the  clothes  that  had  been 

291 


THE  HEART  OF  THE  HILLS 

in  them  tossed  in  a  whirlwind  over  bed  and  chair 
and  floor,  and  Gray  hanging  out  of  the  window  and 
shouting  to  a  servant: 

"Come  up  here,  Tom,  and  help  put  my  things 
back — I'm  not  going  away." 

A  joyous  whoop  from  below  answered: 

"  Yassuh,  yassuh;  my  Gord,  but  I  is  glad.  Why, 
de  colonel " 

Just  then  the  boy  heard  a  slight  noise  behind 
him  and  he  turned  to  see  his  father's  arms 
stretched  wide  for  him. 

Gray  remained  firm.  He  would  not  waste  an 
other  year.  He  had  a  good  start;  he  would  go  to 
the  mines  and  begin  work,  and  he  could  come  home 
when  he  pleased,  if  only  over  Sunday.  So,  as 
Mavis  had  watched  Jason  leave  to  be  with  Mar- 
jorie  in  the  Blue-grass,  so  Marjorie  now  watched 
Gray  leave  to  be  with  Mavis  in  the  hills.  And 
between  them  John  Burnham  was  again  left 
wondering. 


292 


XXXIV 

A  T  sunset  Gray  Pendleton  pushed  his  tired 
•*  *•  horse  across  the  Cumberland  River  and  up 
into  the  county-seat  of  the  Hawns  and  Honeycutts. 
From  the  head  of  the  main  street  two  battered 
signs  caught  his  eye — Hawn  Hotel  and  Honeycutt 
Inn — the  one  on  the  right-hand  side  close  at  hand, 
and  the  other  far  down  on  the  left,  and  each  on  the 
corner  of  the  street.  Both  had  double  balconies, 
both  were  ramshackle  and  unpainted,  and  near 
each  was  a  general  store,  run  now  by  a  subleader 
of  each  faction — Hiram  Honeycutt  and  Shade 
Hawn — for  old  Jason  and  old  Aaron,  except  in 
councils  of  war  and  business,  had  retired  into  the 
more  or  less  peaceful  haven  of  home  and  old  age. 
Naturally  the  boy  drew  up  and  stopped  before 
Hawn  Hotel,  from  the  porch  of  which  keen  eyes 
scrutinized  him  with  curiosity  and  suspicion,  and 
before  he  had  finished  his  supper  of  doughy  bis 
cuits,  greasy  bacon,  and  newly  killed  fried  chicken, 
the  town  knew  but  little  less  about  his  business 
there  than  he  himself.  That  night  he  asked  many 
questions  of  Shade  Hawn,  the  proprietor,  and  all 
were  answered  freely,  except  where  they  bore  on 
the  feud  of  half  a  century,  and  then  Gray  encoun- 

293 


THE  HEART  OF  THE  HILLS 

tered  a  silence  that  was  puzzling  but  significant  and 
deterrent.  Next  morning  everybody  who  spoke 
to  him  called  him  by  name,  and  as  he  rode  up  the 
river  there  was  the  look  of  recognition  in  every 
face  he  saw,  for  the  news  of  him  had  gone  ahead 
the  night  before.  At  the  mouth  of  Hawn  Creek, 
in  a  bend  of  the  river,  he  came  upon  a  school- 
house  under  a  beech-tree  on  the  side  of  a  little  hill; 
through  the  open  door  he  saw,  amidst  the  bent 
heads  of  the  pupils,  the  figure  of  a  young  woman 
seated  at  a  desk,  and  had  he  looked  back  when  he 
turned  up  the  creek  he  would  have  seen  her  at  the 
window,  gazing  covertly  after  him  with  one  hand 
against  her  heart.  For  Mavis  Hawn,  too,  had 
heard  that  Gray  was  come  to  the  hills.  All  morn 
ing  she  had  been  watching  the  open  door-way,  and 
yet  when  she  saw  him  pass  she  went  pale  and  had 
to  throw  her  head  up  sharply  to  get  her  breath. 
Her  hands  trembled,  she  rose  and  went  to  the 
window,  and  she  did  not  realize  what  she  was  doing 
until  she  turned  to  meet  the  surprised  and  curious 
eyes  of  one  of  the  larger  girls,  who,  too,  could  see 
the  passing  stranger,  and  then  the  young  school 
mistress  flushed  violently  and  turned  to  her  seat. 
The  girl  was  a  Honeycutt,  and  more  than  once  that 
long,  restless  afternoon  Mavis  met  the  same  eyes 
searching  her  own  and  already  looking  mischief. 
Slowly  the  long  afternoon  passed,  school  was  dis 
missed,  and  Mavis,  with  the  circuit  rider's  old  dog 
on  guard  at  her  heels,  started  slowly  up  the  creek 

294 


THE  HEART  OF  THE  HILLS 

with  her  eyes  fixed  on  every  bend  of  the  road  she 
turned  and  on  the  crest  of  every  little  hill  she 
climbed,  watching  for  Gray  to  come  back.  Once 
a  horse  that  looked  like  the  one  he  rode  and 
glimpsed  through  the  bushes  far  ahead  made  her 
heart  beat  violently  and  stopped  her,  poised  for  a 
leap  into  the  bushes,  but  it  was  only  little  Aaron 
Honeycutt,  who  lifted  his  hat,  flushed,  and  spoke 
gravely;  and  Mavis  reached  the  old  circuit  rider's 
gate,  slipped  around  to  the  back  porch  and  sat 
down,  still  in  a  tumult  that  she  could  not  calm. 
It  was  not  long  before  she  heard  a  clear  shout  of 
" hello"  at  the  gate,  and  she  clenched  her  chair 
with  both  hands,  for  the  voice  was  Gray's.  She 
heard  the  old  woman  go  to  the  door,  heard  her 
speak  her  surprise  and  hearty  welcome — heard 
Gray's  approaching  steps. 

"Is  Mavis  here?"  Gray  asked. 

"She  ain't  got  back  from  school." 

"Was  that  her  school  down  there  at  the  mouth 
of  the  creek?" 

"Shore." 

"Well,  I  wish  I  had  known  that." 

Calmly  and  steadily  then  Mavis  rose,  and  a  mo 
ment  later  Gray  saw  her  in  the  door  and  his  own 
heart  leaped  at  the  rich,  grave  beauty  of  her. 
Gravely  she  shook  hands,  gravely  looked  full  into 
his  eyes,  without  a  question  sat  down  with  quiet 
hands  folded  in  her  lap,  and  it  was  the  boy  who 
was  embarrassed  and  talked.  He  would  live  with 

295 


THE  HEART  OF  THE  HILLS 

the  superintendent  on  the  spur  just  above  and 
he  would  be  a  near  neighbor.  His  father  was  not 
well.  Marjorie  was  not  going  away  again,  but 
would  stay  at  home  that  winter.  Mavis's  step 
mother  was  well,  and  he  had  not  seen  Jason  before 
he  left — they  must  have  passed  each  other  on  the 
way.  Since  Mavis's  father  was  now  at  home,  Jason 
would  stay  at  the  college,  as  he  lost  so  much  time 
going  to  and  fro.  Gray  was  glad  to  get  to  work, 
he  already  loved  the  mountains;  but  there  had  been 
so  many  changes  he  hardly  remembered  the  creek 
— how  was  Mavis's  grandfather,  old  Mr.  Hawn? 
Mavis  raised  her  eyes,  but  she  was  so  long  answer 
ing  that  the  old  woman  broke  in: 

"He's  mighty  peart  fer  sech  a'  old  man,  but  he's 
a-breakin'  fast  an'  he  ain't  long  fer  this  wuld." 
She  spoke  with  the  frank  satisfaction  that,  among 
country  folks,  the  old  take  in  ushering  their  con 
temporaries  through  the  portals,  and  Gray  could 
hardly  help  smiling.  He  rose  to  leave  presently, 
and  the  old  woman  pressed  him  to  stay  for  supper; 
but  Mavis's  manner  somehow  forbade,  and  the 
boy  climbed  back  up  the  spur,  wondering,  ill  at 
ease,  and  almost  shaken  by  the  new  beauty  the 
girl  seemed  to  have  taken  on  in  the  hills.  For 
there  she  was  at  home.  She  had  the  peace  and 
serenity  of  them:  the  pink-flecked  laurel  was  in 
her  cheeks,  the  white  of  the  rhododendron  was  at 
the  base  of  her  full  round  throat,  and  in  her  eyes 
were  the  sleepy  shadows  of  deep  ravines.  It  might 

296 


THE  HEART  OF  THE  HILLS 

not  be  so  lonely  for  him  after  all  in  his  exile,  and 
the  vision  of  the  girl  haunted  Gray  when  he  went 
to  bed  that  night  and  made  him  murmur  and  stir 
restlessly  in  his  sleep. 


297 


XXXV 

more,  on  his  way  for  his  last  year  at  col- 
lege,  Jason  Hawn  had  stepped  into  the  chill 
morning  air  at  the  railway  junction,  on  the  edge 
of  the  Blue-grass.  Again  a  faint  light  was  showing 
in  the  east,  and  cocks  were  crowing  from  a  low  sea 
of  mist  that  lay  motionless  over  the  land,  but  this 
time  the  darky  porter  reached  without  hesitation 
for  his  bag  and  led  him  to  the  porch  of  the  hotel, 
where  he  sat  waiting  for  breakfast.  Once  more  at 
sunrise  he  sped  through  the  breaking  mist  and  high 
over  the  yellow  Kentucky  River,  but  there  was  no 
pang  of  homesickness  when  he  looked  down  upon 
it  now.  Again  fields  of  grass  and  grain,  grazing 
horses  and  cattle,  fences,  houses,  barns  reeled  past 
his  window,  and  once  more  Steve  Hawn  met  him 
at  the  station  in  the  same  old  rattletrap  buggy,  and 
again  stared  at  him  long  and  hard. 

"Ain't  much  like  the  leetle  feller  I  met  here  three 
year  ago — air  ye?" 

Steve  was  unshaven  and  his  stubbly,  thick, 
black  beard  emphasized  the  sickly  touch  of  prison 
pallor  that  was  still  on  his  face.  His  eyes  had  a 
new,  wild,  furtive  look,  and  his  mouth  was  cruel 
and  bitter.  Again  each  side  of  the  street  was  lined 

298 


THE  HEART  OF  THE  HILLS 

with  big  wagons  loaded  with  tobacco  and  covered 
with  cotton  cloth.  Steve  pointed  to  them. 

"Rickolect  whut  I  tol'  you  about  hell  a-comin' 
about  that  terbaccer?" 

Jason  nodded. 

"Well,  hit's  come."  His  tone  was  ominous,  per 
sonal,  and  disturbed  the  boy. 

"Look  here,  Steve,"  he  said  earnestly,  "haven't 
you  had  enough  now?  Ain't  you  goin*  to  settle 
down  and  behave  yourself?" 

The  man's  face  took  on  the  snarl  of  a  vicious  dog. 

"No,  by  God! — I  hain't.  The  trouble's  on  me 
right  now.  Colonel  Pendleton  hain't  treated  me 
right — he  cheated  me  out " 

Steve  got  no  further;  the  boy  turned  squarely 
in  the  buggy  and  his  eyes  blazed. 

"That's  a  lie.  I  don't  know  anything  about  it, 
but  I  know  it's  a  lie." 

Steve,  too,  turned  furious,  but  he  had  gone  too 
far,  and  had  counted  too  much  on  kinship,  so  he 
controlled  himself,  and  with  vicious  cunning 
whipped  about. 

"Well,"  he  said  in  an  injured  tone,  "I  mought 
be  mistaken.  We'll  see — we'll  see." 

Jason  had  not  asked  about  his  mother,  and  he 
did  not  ask  now,  for  Steve's  manner  worried  him 
and  made  him  apprehensive.  He  answered  the 
man's  questions  about  the  mountains  shortly,  and 
with  diabolical  keenness  Steve  began  to  probe  old 
wounds. 

299 


THE  HEART  OF  THE  HILLS 

"I  reckon,"  he  said  sympathetically,  "you 
hain't  found  no  way  yit  o'  gittin'  yo'  land  back?" 

"No." 

"Ner  who  shot  yo'  pap?" 

"No." 

"Well,  I  hear  as  how  Colonel  Pendleton  owns 
a  lot  in  that  company  that's  diggin'  out  yo'  coal. 
Mebbe  you  might  git  it  back  from  him." 

Jason  made  no  answer,  for  his  heart  was  sinking 
with  every  thought  of  his  mother  and  the  further 
trouble  Steve  seemed  bound  to  make.  Martha 
Hawn  was  standing  in  her  porch  with  one  hand 
above  her  eyes  when  they  drove  into  the  mouth  of 
the  lane.  She  came  down  to  the  gate,  and  Jason 
put  his  arms  around  her  and  kissed  her;  and  when 
he  saw  the  tears  start  in  her  eyes  he  kissed  her 
again  while  Steve  stared,  surprised  and  uncompre 
hending.  Again  that  afternoon  Jason  wandered 
aimlessly  into  the  blue-grass  fields,  and  again  his 
feet  led  him  to  the  knoll  whence  he  could  see  the 
twin  houses  of  the  Pendletons  bathed  in  the  yel 
low  sunlight,  and  their  own  proud  atmosphere  of 
untroubled  calm.  And  again,  even,  he  saw  Mar- 
jorie  galloping  across  the  fields,  and  while  he  knew 
the  distressful  anxiety  in  one  of  the  households,  he 
little  guessed  the  incipient  storm  that  imperious 
young  woman  was  at  that  moment  carrying  within 
her  own  breast  from  the  other.  For  Marjorie 
missed  Gray;  she  was  lonely  and  she  was  bored;  she 
had  heard  that  Jason  had  been  home  several  days; 

300 


THE  HEART  OF  THE  HILLS 

she  was  irritated  that  he  had  not  been  to  see  her, 
nor  had  sent  her  any  message,  and  just  now  what 
she  was  going  to  do,  she  did  not  exactly  know  or 
care.  Half  an  hour  later  he  saw  her  again,  coming 
back  at  a  gallop  along  the  turnpike,  and  seeing 
him,  she  pulled  in  and  waved  her  whip.  Jason 
took  off  his  hat,  waved  it  in  answer,  and  kept 
on,  whereat  imperious  Marjorie  wheeled  her  horse 
through  a  gate  into  the  next  field  and  thundered 
across  it  and  up  the  slope  toward  him.  Jason 
stood  hat  in  hand — embarrassed,  irresolute,  pale. 
When  she  pulled  in,  he  walked  forward  to  take  her 
outstretched  gloved  hand,  and  when  he  looked  up 
into  her  spirited  face  and  challenging  eyes,  a  great 
calm  came  suddenly  over  him,  and  from  it  emerged 
his  own  dominant  spirit  which  the  girl  instantly 
felt.  She  had  meant  to  tease,  badger,  upbraid, 
domineer  over  him,  but  the  volley  of  reproachful 
questions  that  were  on  her  petulant  red  lips 
dwindled  lamely  to  one: 

"How's  Mavis,  Jason?" 

"She's  well  as  common." 

"You  didn't  see  Gray?" 

"No." 

"I  got  a  letter  from  him  yesterday.  He's  living 
right  above  Mavis.  He  says  she  is  more  beautiful 
than  ever,  and  he's  already  crazy  about  his  life 
down  there — and  the  mountains." 

"I'm  mighty  glad." 

She  turned  to  go,  and  the  boy  walked  down  the 
301 


THE  HEART  OF  THE  HILLS 

hill  to  open  the  gate  for  her — and  sidewise  Marjorie 
scrutinized  him.  Jason  had  grown  taller,  darker, 
his  hair  was  longer,  his  clothes  were  worn  and  rather 
shabby,  the  atmosphere  of  the  hills  still  invested 
him,  and  he  was  more  like  the  Jason  she  had 
first  seen,  so  that  the  memories  of  childhood  were 
awakened  in  the  girl  and  she  softened  toward  him. 
When  she  passed  through  the  gate  and  turned  her 
horse  toward  him  again,  the  boy  folded  his  arms 
over  the  gate,  and  his  sunburnt  hands  showed  to 
Marjorie's  eyes  the  ravages  of  hard  work. 

"Why  haven't  you  been  over  to  see  me,  Jason?" 
she  asked  gently. 

"I  just  got  back  this  mornin'." 

"Why,  Gray  wrote  you  left  home  several  days 
ago" 

"I  did — but  I  stopped  on  the  way  to  visit  some 
kinfolks." 

"Oh.  Well,  aren't  you  coming?  I'm  lonesome, 
and  I  guess  you  will  be  too — without  Mavis." 

"I  won't  have  time  to  get  lonesome." 

The  girl  smiled. 

"That's  ungracious — but  I  want  you  to  take  the 
time." 

The  boy  looked  at  her;  since  his  trial  he  had  hard 
ly  spoken  to  her,  and  had  rarely  seen  her.  Some 
how  he  had  come  to  regard  his  presence  at  Colonel 
Pendleton's  the  following  Christmas  night  as  but 
a  generous  impulse  on  their  part  that  was  to  end 
then  and  there.  He  had  kept  away  from  Marjorie 

302 


THE  HEART  OF  THE  HILLS 

thereafter,  and  if  he  was  not  to  keep  away  now, 
he  must  make  matters  very  clear. 

"Maybe  your  mother  won't  like  it,"  he  said 
gravely.  "I'm  a  jail-bird." 

"Don't,  Jason,"  she  said,  shocked  by  his  frank 
ness;  "you  couldn't  help  that.  I  want  you  to 


come." 


Jason  was  reddening  with  embarrassment  now, 
but  he  had  to  get  out  what  had  been  so  long  on  his 
mind. 

"I'm  comin'  once  anyhow.  I  know  what  she 
did  for  me  and  I'm  comin'  to  thank  her  for  doin' 

Marjorie  was  surprised  and  again  she  smiled. 

"Well,  she  won't  like  that,  Jason,"  she  said,  and 
the  boy,  not  misunderstanding,  smiled  too. 

"I'm  comin'." 

Marjorie  turned  her  horse. 

"I  hope  I'll  be  at  home." 

Her  mood  had  turned  to  coquetry  again.  Jason 
had  meant  to  tell  her  that  he  knew  she  herself  had 
been  behind  her  mother's  kindness  toward  him, 
but  a  sudden  delicacy  forbade,  and  to  her  change 
of  mood  he  answered : 

"You  will  be — when  I  come." 

This  was  a  new  deftness  for  Jason,  and  a  little 
flush  of  pleasure  came  to  the  girl's  cheeks  and  a 
little  seriousness  to  her  eyes. 

"Well,  you  are  mighty  nice,  Jason — good-by." 

"Good-by,"  said  the  boy  soberly. 

At  her  own  gate  the  girl  turned  to  look  back,  but 
303 


THE  HEART  OF  THE  HILLS 

Jason  was  striding  across  the  fields.  She  turned 
again  on  the  slope  of  the  hill  but  Jason  was  still 
striding  on.  She  watched  him  until  he  had  dis 
appeared,  but  he  did  not  turn  to  look  and  her 
heart  felt  a  little  hurt.  She  was  very  quiet  that 
night,  so  quiet  that  she  caught  a  concerned  look  in 
her  mother's  eyes,  and  when  she  had  gone  to  her 
room  her  mother  came  in  and  found  her  in  a  stream 
of  moonlight  at  her  window.  And  when  Mrs.  Pen- 
dleton  silently  kissed  her,  she  broke  into  tears. 

"Fm  lonely,  mother,"  she  sobbed;  "I'm  so 
lonely." 

A  week  later  Jason  sat  on  the  porch  one  night 
after  supper  and  his  mother  came  to  the  doorway. 

"I  forgot  to  tell  ye,  Jason,  that  Marjorie  Pen- 
dleton  rid  over  here  the  day  you  got  here  an'  axed 
if  you'd  come  home." 

"I  saw  her  down  the  pike  that  day,"  said  Jason, 
not  showing  the  surprise  he  felt.  Steve  Hawn, 
coming  around  the  corner  of  the  house,  heard  them 
both  and  on  his  face  was  a  malicious  grin. 

"Down  the  pike,"  he  repeated.  "I  seed  ye 
both  a-talkin',  up  thar  at  the  edge  of  the  woods. 
She  looked  back  at  ye  twice,  but  you  wouldn't  take 
no  notice.  Now  that  Gray  ain't  hyeh  I  reckon 
you  mought " 

The  boy's  protest,  hoarse  and  inarticulate, 
stopped  Steve,  who  dropped  his  bantering  tone 
and  turned  serious. 

"Now  looky  here,  Jason,  yo'  uncle  Arch  has 
304 


THE  HEART  OP  THE  HILLS 

tol*  me  about  Gray  and  Mavis  already  up  thar 
in  the  mountains,  an'  I  see  what's  comin'  down  here 
fer  you.  You  an*  Gray  ought  to  have  more  sense 
— gittin'  into  such  trouble " 

"Trouble!"  cried  the  boy. 

"Yes,  I  know,"  Steve  answered.  "Hit  is  funny 
fer  me  to  be  talkin'  about  trouble.  I  was  born 
to  it,  as  the  circuit  rider  says,  as  the  sparks  fly 
upward.  Thar  ain't  no  hope  fer  me,  but  you " 

The  boy  rose  impatiently  but  curiously  shaken  by 
such  words  and  so  strange  a  tone  from  his  step 
father.  He  was  still  shaken  when  he  climbed  to 
Mavis's  room  and  was  looking  out  of  her  window, 
and  that  turned  his  thoughts  to  her  and  to  Gray 
in  the  hills.  What  was  the  trouble  that  Steve  had 
already  heard  about  Mavis  and  Gray,  and  what 
the  trouble  at  which  Steve  had  hinted — for  him? 
Once  before  Steve  had  dropped  a  bit  of  news,  also 
gathered  from  Arch  Hawn,  that  during  the  truce 
in  the  mountains  little  Aaron  Honeycutt  had  de 
veloped  a  wild  passion  for  Mavis,  but  at  that 
absurdity  Jason  had  only  laughed.  Still  the  cus 
toms  of  the  Blue-grass  and  the  hills  were  widely 
divergent,  and  if  Gray,  only  out  of  loneliness,  were 
much  with  Mavis,  only  one  interpretation  was  pos 
sible  to  the  Hawns  and  Honeycutts,  just  as  only 
one  interpretation  had  been  possible  for  Steve  with 
reference  to  Marjorie  and  himself,  and  Steve's  in 
terpretation  he  contemptuously  dismissed.  His 
grandfather  might  make  trouble  for  Gray,  or  Gray 


THE  HEART  OF  THE  HILLS 

and  little  Aaron  might  clash.  He  would  like  to 
warn  Gray,  and  yet  even  with  that  wish  in  his 
mind  a  little  flame  of  jealousy  was  already  licking 
at  his  heart,  though  already  that  heart  was  thump 
ing  at  the  bid  of  Marjorie.  Impatiently  he  began 
to  wonder  at  the  perverse  waywardness  of  his  own 
soul,  and  without  undressing  he  sat  at  the  window 
— restless,  sleepless,  and  helpless  against  his  war 
ring  self — sat  until  the  shadows  of  the  night  began 
to  sweep  after  the  light  of  the  sinking  moon.  When 
he  rose  finally,  he  thought  he  saw  a  dim  figure 
moving  around  the  corner  of  the  barn.  He  rubbed 
his  eyes  to  make  sure,  and  then  picking  up  his 
pistol  he  slipped  down  the  stairs  and  out  the  side 
door,  taking  care  not  to  awaken  his  mother  and 
Steve.  When  he  peered  forth  from  the  corner  of 
the  house,  Steve's  chestnut  gelding  was  outside 
the  barn  and  somebody  was  saddling  him.  Some 
negro  doubtless  was  stealing  him  out  for  a  ride,  as 
was  not  unusual  in  that  land,  and  that  negro  Jason 
meant  to  scare  half  to  death.  Noiselessly  the  boy 
reached  the  hen-house,  and  when  he  peered  around 
that  he  saw  to  his  bewilderment  that  the  thief  was 
Steve.  Once  more  Steve  went  into  the  barn,  and 
this  time  when  he  come  out  he  began  to  fumble 
about  his  forehead  with  both  hands,  and  a  moment 
later  Jason  saw  him  move  toward  the  gate,  masked 
and  armed.  A  long  shrill  whistle  came  from  the 
turnpike  and  he  heard  Steve  start  into  a  gallop 
down  the  lane. 

306 


XXXVI 

TT  was  three  days  before  Steve  Hawn  returned, 
ill-humored,  reddened  by  drink,  and  worn.  As 
ever,  Martha  Hawn  asked  no  questions  and  Jason 
betrayed  no  curiosity,  no  suspicion,  though  he 
was  not  surprised  to  learn  that  in  a  neighboring 
county  the  night  riders  had  been  at  their  lawless 
work,  and  he  had  no  doubt  that  Steve  was  among 
them.  Jason  would  be  able  to  help  but  little  that 
autumn  in  the  tobacco  field,  for  it  was  his  last 
year  in  college  and  he  meant  to  work  hard  at  his 
books,  but  he  knew  that  the  dispute  between  his 
step-father  and  Colonel  Pendleton  was  still  un 
settled — that  Steve  was  bitter  and  had  a  secret  re 
lentless  purpose  to  get  even.  He  did  not  dare  give 
Colonel  Pendleton  a  warning,  for  it  was  difficult, 
and  he  knew  the  fiery  old  gentleman  would  receive 
such  an  intervention  with  a  gracious  smile  and  dis 
miss  it  with  haughty  contempt;  so  Jason  decided 
merely  to  keep  a  close  watch  on  Steve. 

On  the  opening  day  of  college,  as  on  the  opening 
day  three  years  before,  Jason  walked  through  the 
fields  to  town,  but  he  did  not  start  at  dawn  The 
dew-born  mists  were  gone  and  the  land  lay,  with 
no  mystery  to  the  eye  or  the  mind,  under  a  brilliant 
sun — the  fields  of  stately  corn,  the  yellow  tents  of 

307 


THE  HEART  OF  THE  HILLS 

wheat  gone  from  the  golden  stretches  of  stubble, 
and  green  trees  rising  from  the  dull  golden  sheen  of 
the  stripped  blue-grass  pastures.  The  cut,  up 
turned  tobacco  no  longer  looked  like  hunchbacked 
witches  on  broom-sticks  and  ready  for  flight,  for 
the  leaves,  waxen,  oily,  inert,  hung  limp  and  listless 
from  the  sticks  that  pointed  like  needles  to  the 
north  to  keep  the  stalks  inclined  as  much  as  pos 
sible  from  the  sun.  Even  they  had  taken  on  the 
Midas  touch  of  gold,  for  all  green  and  gold  that 
world  of  blue-grass  was — all  green  and  gold,  except 
for  the  shaggy  unkempt  fields  where  the  king  of 
weeds  had  tented  the  year  before  and  turned  them 
over  to  his  camp  followers — ragweed,  dockweed, 
white-top,  and  cockle-burr.  But  the  resentment 
against  such  an  agricultural  outrage  that  the  boy 
had  caught  from  John  Burnham  was  no  longer  so 
deep,  for  that  tobacco  had  kept  his  mother  and 
himself  alive  and  the  father  of  his  best  friend  must 
look  to  it  now  to  save  himself  from  destruction. 
All  the  way  Jason,  walking  leisurely,  confidently, 
proudly,  and  with  the  fires  of  his  ambition  no  less 
keen,  thought  of  the  green  mountain  boy  who 
had  torn  across  those  fields  at  sunrise,  that  when 
"school  took  up"  he  might  not  be  late — thought 
of  him  with  much  humor  and  with  no  little  sym 
pathy.  When  he  saw  the  smoke  cloud  over  the 
town  he  took  to  the  white  turnpike  and  quickened 
his  pace.  Again  the  campus  of  the  rival  old  Tran 
sylvania  was  dotted  with  students  moving  to  and 

308 


THE  HEART  OF  THE  HILLS 

fro.  Again  the  same  policeman  stood  on  the  same 
corner,  but  now  he  shook  hands  with  Jason  and 
called  him  by  name.  When  he  passed  between  the 
two  gray  stone  pillars  with  pyramidal  tops  and 
swung  along  the  driveway  between  the  maple-trees 
and  chattering  sparrows,  there  were  the  same  boys 
with  caps  pushed  back  and  trousers  turned  up,  the 
same  girls  with  hair  up  and  hair  down,  but  what 
a  difference  now  for  him!  Even  while  he  looked 
around  there  was  a  shout  from  a  crowd  around 
John  Burnham's  doorway;  several  darted  from 
that  crowd  toward  him  and  the  crowd  followed.  A 
dozen  of  them  were  trying  to  catch  his  hand  at 
once,  and  the  welcome  he  had  seen  Gray  Pendleton 
once  get  he  got  now  for  himself,  for  again  a  pair 
of  hands  went  high,  a  series  of  barbaric  yells  were 
barked  out,  and  the  air  was  rent  with  the  name  of 
Jason  Hawn.  Among  them  Jason  stood  flushed, 
shy,  grateful.  A  moment  later  he  saw  John  Burn- 
ham  in  the  doorway — looking  no  less  pleased  and 
waiting  for  him.  Even  the  old  president  paused 
on  his  crutches  for  a  handshake  and  a  word  of  wel 
come.  The  boy  found  himself  wishing  that  Mar- 
jorie — and  Mavis — were  there,  and,  as  he  walked 
up  the  steps,  from  out  behind  John  Burnham  Mar- 
jorie  stepped — proud  for  him  and  radiant. 

And  so,  through  that  autumn,  the  rectangular, 
diametric  little  comedy  went  on  between  Marjorie 
and  Jason  in  the  Blue-grass  and  between  Gray  and 
Mavis  in  the  hills.  No  Saturday  passed  that  Ja- 

; 


THE  HEART  OF  THE  HILLS 

son  did  not  spend  at  his  mother's  home  or  with 
John  Burnham,  and  to  the  mother  and  Steve  and  to 
Burnham  his  motive  was  plain — for  most  of  the  boy's 
time  was  spent  with  Marjorie  Pendleton.  Some 
how  Marjorie  seemed  always  driving  to  town  or 
coming  home  when  Jason  was  on  his  way  home 
or  going  to  town,  and  somehow  he  was  always 
afoot  and  Marjorie  was  always  giving  him  a  kindly 
lift  one  or  the  other  way.  Moreover,  horses  were 
plentiful  as  barn-yard  fowls  on  Morton  Sanders' 
farm,  and  the  manager,  John  Burnham's  brother, 
who  had  taken  a  great  fancy  to  Jason,  gave  him  a 
mount  whenever  the  boy  pleased.  And  so  John 
Burnham  saw  the  pair  galloping  the  turnpikes  or 
through  the  fields,  or  at  dusk  going  slowly  toward 
Marjorie's  home.  Besides,  Marjorie  organized 
many  hunting  parties  that  autumn,  and  the  moon 
and  the  stars  looking  down  saw  the  two  never 
apart  for  long.  About  the  intimacy  Mrs.  Pendle 
ton  and  the  colonel  thought  little.  Colonel  Pen 
dleton  liked  the  boy,  Mrs.  Pendleton  wanted  Mar 
jorie  at  home,  and  she  was  glad  for  her  to  have 
companionship.  Moreover,  to  both,  Marjorie  was 
still  a  child,  anything  serious  would  be  absurd,  and 
anyway  ^/[arjorie  was  meant  for  Gray. 

In  the  mountains  Gray's  interest  in  his  life 
was  growing  every  day.  He  liked  to  watch  things 
planned  and  grow  into  execution.  His  day  began 
with  the  screech  of  a  whistle  at  midnight.  Every 
morning  he  saw  the  sun  rise  and  the  mists  unroll 

310 


THE  HEART  OF  THE  HILLS 

and  the  drenched  flanks  of  the  mountains  glis 
ten  and  drip  under  the  sunlight.  During  the  after 
noon  he  woke  up  in  time  to  stroll  down  the  creek, 
meet  Mavis  after  school  and  walk  back  to  the 
circuit  rider's  house  with  her.  After  supper  every 
night  he  would  go  down  the  spur  and  sit  under  the 
honeysuckles  with  her  on  the  porch.  The  third 
time  he  came  the  old  man  and  woman  quietly  with 
drew  and  were  seen  no  more,  and  this  happened 
thereafter  all  the  time.  Meanwhile  in  the  Blue- 
grass  and  the  hills  the  forked  tongues  of  gossip 
began  to  play,  reaching  last,  as  usual,  those  who 
were  most  concerned,  but,  as  usual,  reaching  them, 
too,  in  time.  In  the  Blue-grass  it  was  criticism 
of  Colonel  and  Mrs.  Pendleton,  their  indifference, 
carelessness,  blindness,  a  gaping  question  of  their 
sanity  at  the  risk  of  even  a  suspicion  that  such  a 
mating  might  be  possible — the  proud  daughter  of 
a  proud  family  with  a  nobody  from  the  hills,  un 
known  except  that  he  belonged  to  a  fierce  family 
whose  history  could  be  written  in  human  blood; 
who  himself  had  been  in  jail  on  the  charge  of  mur 
der;  whose  mother  could  not  write  her  own  name; 
whose  step-father  was  a  common  tobacco  tenant 
no  less  illiterate,  and  with  a  brain  that  was  a  hot 
bed  of  lawless  mischief,  and  who  held  the  life  of 
a  man  as  cheap  as  the  life  of  a  steer  fattening  for 
the  butcher's  knife.  But  in  all  the  gossip  there 
was  no  sinister  suggestion  or  even  thought  save  in 
the  primitive  inference  of  this  same  Steve  Hawn. 


THE  HEART  OF  THE  HILLS 

In  the  mountains,  too,  the  gossip  was  for  a  while 
innocent.  To  the  simple  democratic  mountain  way 
of  thinking,  there  was  nothing  strange  in  the  in 
timacy  of  Mavis  and  Gray.  There  Gray  was  no 
better  than  any  mountain  boy.  He  was  in  love 
with  Mavis,  he  was  courting  her,  and  if  he  won 
her  he  would  marry  her,  and  that  simply  was  all — 
particularly  in  the  mind  of  old  grandfather  Hawn. 
Likewise,  too,  was  there  for  a  while  nothing  sinister 
in  the  talk,  for  at  first  Mavis  held  to  the  mountain 
custom,  and  would  not  walk  in  the  woods  with 
Gray  unless  one  of  the  school-children  was  along — 
nothing  sinister  except  to  little  Aaron  Honeycutt, 
whose  code  had  been  a  little  poisoned  by  his  two 
years'  stay  outside  the  hills. 

Once  more  about  each  pair  the  elements  of  social 
tragedy  began  to  concentrate,  intensify,  and  be 
come  active.  The  new  development  in  the  hills 
made  business  competition  keen  between  Shade 
Hawn  and  Hiram  Honeycutt,  who  each  ran  a  hotel 
and  store  in  the  county-seat.  As  old  Jason  Hawn 
and  old  Aaron  Honeycutt  had  retired  from  the 
leadership,  and  little  Jason  and  little  Aaron  had 
been  out  of  the  hills,  leadership  naturally  was  as 
sumed  by  these  two  business  rivals,  who  revived 
the  old  hostility  between  the  factions,  but  gave 
vent  to  it  in  a  secret,  underhanded  way  that  dis 
gusted  not  only  old  Jason  but  even  old  Aaron  as 
well.  For  now  and  then  a  hired  Hawn  would  drop 
a  Honeycutt  from  the  bushes  and  a  hired  Honey- 

312 


THE  HEART  OF  THE  HILLS 

cutt  would  drop  a  Hawn.  There  was,  said  old 
Jason  with  an  oath  of  contempt,  no  manhood  left 
in  the  feud.  No  principal  went  gunning  for  a 
principal — no  hired  assassin  for  another  of  his  kind. 

"Nobody  ain't  shootin'  the  right  feller,"  said  the 
old  man.  "Looks  like  hit's  a  question  of  which 
hired  feller  gits  fust  the  man  who  hired  the  other 
feller/' 

And  when  this  observation  reached  old  Aaron 
he  agreed  heartily. 

"Fer  once  in  his  life,"  he  said,  "old  Jason  Hawn 
kind  o'  by  accident  is  a-hittin'  the  truth."  And 
each  old  man  bet  in  his  secret  heart,  if  little  Aaron 
and  little  Jason  were  only  at  home  together,  things 
would  go  on  in  quite  a  different  way. 

In  the  lowlands  the  tobacco  pool  had  been 
formed  and,  when  persuasion  and  argument  failed, 
was  starting  violent  measures  to  force  into  the 
pool  raisers  who  would  not  go  in  willingly.  In  the 
western  and  southern  parts  of  the  State  the  night 
riders  had  been  more  than  ever  active.  Tobacco 
beds  had  been  destroyed,  barns  had  been  burned, 
and  men  had  been  threatened,  whipped,  and  shot. 
Colonel  Pendleton  found  himself  gradually  getting 
estranged  from  some  of  his  best  friends.  He  quar 
relled  with  old  Morton  Sanders,  and  in  time  he  re 
tired  to  his  farm,  as  though  it  were  the  pole  of  the 
earth.  His  land  was  his  own  to  do  with  as  he 
pleased.  No  man,  no  power  but  the  Almighty  and 
the  law,  could  tell  him  what  he  must  do.  The  to- 

313 


THE  HEART  OF  THE  HILLS 

bacco  pool  was  using  the  very  methods  of  the 
trust  it  was  seeking  to  destroy.  Under  those  cir 
cumstances  he  considered  his  duty  to  himself  par 
amount  to  his  duty  to  his  neighbor,  and  his  duty 
to  himself  he  would  do;  and  so  the  old  gentleman 
lived  proudly  in  his  loneliness  and  refused  to  know 
fear,  though  the  night  riders  were  getting  busy 
now  in  the  counties  adjacent  to  the  Blue-grass, 
and  were  threatening  raids  into  the  colonel's  own 
county — the  proudest  in  the  State.  Other  "inde 
pendents"  hardly  less  lonely,  hardly  less  hated,  had 
electrified  their  barbed-wire  fences,  and  had  hired 
guards — fighting  men  from  the  mountains — to 
watch  their  barns  and  houses,  but  such  an  example 
the  colonel  would  not  follow,  though  John  Burn- 
ham  pleaded  with  him,  and  even  Jason  dared  at 
last  to  give  him  a  covert  warning,  with  no  hint, 
however,  that  the  warning  was  against  his  own 
step-father  Steve.  It  was  the  duty  of  the  law  to 
protect  him,  the  colonel  further  argued;  the  county 
judge  had  sworn  that  the  law  would  do  its  best; 
and  only  when  the  law  could  not  protect  him  would 
the  colonel  protect  himself. 

And  so  the  winter  months  passed  until  one 
morning  a  wood-thrush  hidden  in  green  depths  sent 
up  a  song  of  spring  to  Gray's  ears  in  the  hills,  and 
in  the  Blue-grass  a  meadow-lark  wheeling  in  the 
sun-light  showered  down  the  same  song  upon  the 
heart  of  Jason  Hawn. 

Almost  every  Saturday  Mavis  would  go  down 

3H 


THE  HEART  OF  THE  HILLS 

to  stay  till  Monday  with  her  grandfather  Hawn. 
Gray  would  drift  down  there  to  see  her — and 
always,  while  Mavis  was  helping  her  grandmother 
in  the  kitchen,  Gray  and  old  Jason  would  sit  to 
gether  on  the  porch.  Gray  never  tired  of  the  old 
man's  shrewd  humor,  quaint  philosophy,  his  hunt 
ing  tales  and  stories  of  the  feud,  and  old  Jason 
liked  Gray  and  trusted  him  more  the  more  he  saw 
of  him.  And  Gray  was  a  little  startled  when  it 
soon  became  evident  that  the  old  man  took  it  for 
granted  that  in  his  intimacy  with  Mavis  was  one 
meaning  and  only  one. 

"I  al'ays  thought  Mavis  would  marry  Jason," 
he  said  one  night,  "but,  Lordy  Mighty,  I'm  nigh 
on  to  eighty  an'  I  don't  know  no  more  about  gals 
than  when  I  was  eighteen.  A  feller  stands  more 
chance  with  some  of  'em  stayin'  away,  an'  agin 
if  he  stays  away  from  some  of  'em  he  don't  stand 
no  chance  at  all.  An'  agin  I  rickollect  that  if  I 
hadn't  'a'  got  mad  an'  left  grandma  in  thar  jist 
at  one  time  an'  hadn't  'a'  come  back  jist  at  the 
right  time  another  time,  I'd  'a'  lost  her — shore. 
Looks  like  you're  cuttin'  Jason  out  mighty  fast 
now — but  which  kind  of  a  gal  Mavis  in  thar  is,  I 
don't  know  no  more'n  if  I'd  never  seed  her." 

Gray  flushed  and  said  nothing,  and  a  little  later 
the  old  man  went  frankly  on: 

"I'm  gittin'  purty  old  now  an'  I  hain't  goin'  to 
last  much  longer,  I  reckon.  An'  I  want  you  to 
know  if  you  an'  Mavis  hitch  up  fer  a  life-trot 

315 


THE  HEART  OF  THE  HILLS 

tergether  I  aim  to  divide  this  farm  betwixt  her 
an'  Jason,  an'  you  an'  Mavis  can  have  the  half  up 
thar  closest  to  the  mines,  so  you  can  be  close  to  yo' 
work." 

The  boy  was  saved  any  answer,  for  the  old  man 
expected  and  waited  for  none,  so  simple  was  the 
whole  matter  to  him,  but  Gray,  winding  up  the 
creek  homeward  in  the  moonlight  that  night,  did 
some  pretty  serious  thinking.  No  such  interpreta 
tion  could  have  been  put  on  the  intimacy  between 
him  and  Mavis  at  home,  for  there  companionship, 
coquetry,  sentiment,  devotion  even,  were  possible 
without  serious  parental  concern.  Young  people 
in  the  Blue-grass  handled  their  own  heart  affairs, 
and  so  they  did  for  that  matter  in  the  hills,  but 
Gray  could  not  realize  that  primitive  conditions 
forbade  attention  without  intention:  for  life  was 
simple,  mating  was  early  because  life  was  so  sim 
ple,  and  Nature's  way  with  humanity  was  as  with 
her  creatures  of  the  fields  and  air  except  for  the  eye 
of  God  and  the  hand  of  the  law.  A  license,  a  few 
words  from  the  circuit  rider,  a  cleared  hill-side,  a 
one-room  log  cabin,  a  side  of  bacon,  and  a  bag  of 
meal — and,  from  old  Jason's  point  of  view,  Gray 
and  Mavis  could  enter  the  happy  portals,  create 
life  for  others,  and  go  on  hand  in  hand  to  the  grave. 
So  that  where  complexity  would  block  Jason  in 
the  Blue-grass,  simplicity  would  halt  Gray  in  the 
hills.  To  be  sure,  the  strangeness,  the  wildness,  the 
activity  of  the  life  had  fascinated  Gray.  He  loved 

316 


THE  HEART  OF  THE  HILLS 

to  ride  the  mountains  and  trails — even  to  slosh 
along  the  river  road  with  the  rain  beating  on 
him,  dry  and  warm  under  a  poncho.  Often  he 
would  be  caught  out  in  the  hills  and  have  to  stay 
all  night  in  a  cabin;  and  thus  he  learned  the  way  of 
life  away  from  the  mines  and  the  river  bottoms. 
So  far  that  poor  life  had  only  been  pathetic  and 
picturesque,  but  now  when  he  thought  of  it  as  a 
part  of  his  own  life,  of  the  people  becoming  through 
Mavis  his  people,  he  shuddered  and  stopped  in  the 
moonlit  road — aghast.  Still,  the  code  of  his  father 
was  his,  all  women  were  sacred,  and  with  all  there 
would  be  but  one  duty  for  him,  if  circumstances, 
as  they  bade  fair  to  now,  made  that  one  duty  plain. 
And  if  his  father  should  go  under,  if  Morton  San 
ders  took  over  his  home  and  the  boy  must  make  his 
own  way  and  live  his  life  where  he  was — why  not  ? 
Gray  sat  in  the  porch  of  the  house  on  the  spur, 
long  asking  himself  that  question.  He  was  asking 
it  when  he  finally  went  to  bed,  and  he  went  with  it, 
unanswered,  to  sleep. 


317 


XXXVII 

'  I AHE  news  reached  Colonel  Pendleton  late  one 
"*•  afternoon  while  he  was  sitting  on  his  porch — 
pipe  in  mouth  and  with  a  forbidden  mint  julep 
within  easy  reach.  He  had  felt  the  reticence  of 
Gray's  letters,  he  knew  that  the  boy  was  keeping 
back  some  important  secret  from  him  as  long  as  he 
could,  and  now,  in  answer  to  his  own  kind,  frank 
letter  Gray  had,  without  excuse  or  apology,  told 
the  truth,  and  what  he  had  not  told  the  colonel 
fathomed  with  ease.  He  had  hardly  made  up  his 
mind  to  go  at  once  to  Gray,  or  send  for  him,  when 
a  negro  boy  galloped  up  to  the  stile  and  brought 
him  a  note  from  Marjorie's  mother  to  come  to  her 
at  once — and  the  colonel  scented  further  trouble 
in  the  air. 

There  had  been  a  turmoil  that  afternoon  at  Mrs. 
Pendleton's.  Marjorie  had  come  home  a  little 
while  before  with  Jason  Hawn  and,  sitting  in  the 
hallway,  Mrs.  Pendleton  had  seen  Jason  on  the 
stile,  with  his  hat  in  one  hand  and  his  bridle  reins 
in  the  other,  and  Marjorie  halting  suddenly  on  her 
way  to  the  house  and  wheeling  impetuously  back 
toward  him.  To  the  mother's  amazement  and 
dismay  she  saw  that  they  were  quarrelling — quar- 

318 


THE  HEART  OF  THE  HILLS 

relling  as  only  lovers  can.  The  girl's  face  was 
flushed  with  anger,  and  her  red  lips  were  winging 
out  low,  swift,  bitter  words.  The  boy  stood 
straight,  white,  courteous,  and  unanswering.  He 
lifted  his  chin  a  little  when  she  finished,  and  unan 
swering  turned  to  his  horse  and  rode  away.  The 
mother  saw  her  daughter's  face  pale  quickly.  She 
saw  tears  as  Marjorie  came  up  the  walk,  and  when 
she  rose  in  alarm  and  stood  waiting  in  the  door 
way,  the  girl  fled  past  her  and  rushed  weeping  up 
stairs. 

Mrs.  Pendleton  was  waiting  in  the  porch  when 
the  colonel  rode  to  the  stile,  and  the  distress  in  her 
face  was  so  plain  even  that  far  away,  that  the 
colonel  hurried  up  the  walk,  and  there  was  no 
greeting  between  the  two: 

"It's  Marjorie,  Robert/'  she  said  simply,  and 
the  old  gentleman,  who  had  seen  Jason  come  out 
of  the  yard  gate  and  gallop  toward  John  Burn- 
ham's,  guessed  what  the  matter  was,  and  he  took 
the  slim  white  hands  that  were  clenched  together 
and  patted  them  gently: 

"There — there!     Don't  worry,  don't  worry!" 

He  led  her  into  the  house,  and  at  the  top  of  the 
steps  stood  Marjorie  in  white,  her  hair  down  and 
tears  streaming  down  her  face: 

"Come  here,  Marjorie,"  called  Colonel  Pendle 
ton,  and  she  obeyed  like  a  child,  talking  wildly  as 
she  came: 

"I  know  what  you're  going  to  say,  Uncle  Bob — 
319 


THE  HEART  OF  THE  HILLS 

I  know  it  all.  I'm  tired  of  all  this  talk  about 
family,  Uncle  Bob,  I'm  tired  of  it." 

She  had  stopped  a  few  steps  above,  clinging  with 
one  trembling  hand  to  the  balcony,  as  though  to 
have  her  say  quite  out  before  she  went  helplessly 
into  the  arms  that  were  stretched  out  toward  her: 

"Dead  people  are  dead,  Uncle  Bob,  and  only 
live  people  really  count.  People  have  to  be  alive 
to  help  you  and  make  you  happy.  I  want  to  be 
happy,  Uncle  Bob — I  want  to  be  happy.  I  know 
all  about  the  Pendletons,  Uncle  Bob.  They  were 
Cavaliers — I  know  all  that — and  they  used  to  ride 
about  sticking  lances  into  peasants  who  couldn't 
afford  a  suit  of  armor,  but  they  can't  do  anything 
for  me  now,  and  they  mustn't  interfere  with  me 
now.  Anyhow,  the  Sudduths  were  plain  people 
and  I'm  not  a  bit  ashamed  of  it,  mother.  Great 
grandfather  Hiram  lived  in  a  log  cabin.  Grand 
father  Hiram  ate  with  his  knife.  I've  seen  him 
do  it,  and  he  kept  on  doing  it  when  he  knew  better 
just  out  of  habit  or  stubbornness,  but  Jason's  peo 
ple  ate  with  their  knives  because  they  didn't  have 
anything  but  ta>o-pronged  forks — I  heard  John 
Burnham  say  that.  And  Jason's  family  is  as  good 
as  the  Sudduths,  and  maybe  as  the  Pendletons, 
and  he  wouldn't  know  it  because  his  grandfathers 
were  out  of  the  world  and  were  too  busy,  fighting 
Indians  and  killing  bears  and  things  for  food. 
They  didn't  have  time  to  keep  their  family  trees 
trimmed,  and  they  didn't  care  anything  about  the 

320 


THE  HEART  OF  THE  HILLS 

old  trees  anyhow,  and  I  don't  either.  John  Burn- 
ham  has  told  me " 

"Marjorie!"  said  the  colonel  gently,  for  she  was 
getting  hysterical.  He  held  out  his  arms  to  her, 
and  with  another  burst  of  weeping  she  went  into 
them. 

Half  an  hour  later,  when  she  was  calm,  the 
colonel  got  her  to  ride  over  home  with  him,  and 
what  she  had  not  told  her  mother  Marjorie  on  the 
way  told  him — in  a  halting  voice  and  with  her 
face  turned  aside. 

"There's  something  funny  and  deep  about  him, 
Uncle  Bob,  and  I  never  could  reach  it.  It  piqued 
me  and  made  me  angry.  I  knew  he  cared  for  me, 
but  I  could  never  make  him  tell  it." 

The  colonel  was  shaking  his  old  head  wisely  and 
comprehendingly. 

"I  don't  know  why,  but  I  flew  into  a  rage  with 
him  this  afternoon  about  nothing,  and  he  never 
answered  me  a  word,  but  stood  there  listening — 
why,  Uncle  Bob,  he  stood  there  like — like  a — a 
gentleman — till  I  got  through,  and  then  he  turned 
away — he  never  did  say  anything,  and  I  was  so 
sorry  and  ashamed  that  I  nearly  died.  I  don't 
know  what  to  do  now — and  he  won't  come  back, 
Uncle  Bob — I  know  he  won't." 

Her  voice  broke  again,  and  the  colonel  silenced 
her  by  putting  one  hand  comfortingly  on  her 
knee  and  by  keeping  still  himself.  His  shoulders 
drooped  a  little  as  they  walked  from  the  stile  to- 

321 


THE  HEART  OF  THE  HILLS 

ward  the  house,  and  Marjorie  ran  her  arm  through 
his: 

"Why,  you're  a  little  tired,  aren't  you,  Uncle 
Bob?"  she  said  tenderly,  and  he  did  not  answer 
except  to  pat  her  hand,  against  which  she  sud 
denly  felt  his  heart  throb.  He  almost  stumbled 
going  up  the  steps,  and  deadly  pale  he  sank  with  a 
muffled  groan  into  a  chair.  With  a  cry  the  girl 
darted  for  a  glass  of  water,  but  when  she  came 
back,  terrified,  he  was  smiling: 

"I'm  all  right — don't  worry.  I  thought  that 
sun  to-day  was  going  to  be  too  much  for  me." 

But  still  Marjorie  watched  him  anxiously,  and 
when  the  color  came  back  to  his  face  she  went 
behind  him  and  wrapped  her  arms  about  his  neck 
and  put  her  mouth  to  his  ear: 

"I'm  just  a  plain  little  fool,  Uncle  Bob,  and, 
as  Gray  says,  I  talk  through  my  aigrette.  Now, 
don't  you  and  mother  worry — don't  worry  the 
least  little  bit,"  and  she  tightened  her  arms  and 
kissed  him  several  times  on  his  forehead  and 
cheek.  "I  must  go  now — and  if  you  don't  take 
better  care  of  yourself  I'm  going  to  come  over  here 
and  take  care  of  you  myself." 

She  was  in  front  of  him  now  and  looking  down 
fondly;  and  a  wistfulness  that  was  almost  child 
like  had  come  into  the  colonel's  face: 

"I  wish  you  could,  little  Marjorie — I  wish  you 
would." 

He  watched  her  gallop  away — turning  to  wave 
322 


THE  HEART  OF  THE  HILLS 

her  whip  to  him  as  she  went  over  the  slope,  her 
tears  gone  and  once  more  radiant  and  gay — and 
the  sadness  of  the  coming  twilight  slowly  over 
spread  the  colonel's  face.  It  was  the  one  hope  of 
his  life  that  she  would  one  day  come  over  to  take 
care  of  him — and  Gray.  On  into  the  twilight  he 
sat  still  and  thoughtful.  It  looked  serious  for  her 
and  Gray.  Back  his  mind  flashed  to  that  night 
of  the  dance  in  the  mountains,  when  the  four  were 
children,  and  his  wonder  then  as  to  what  might 
take  place  if  that  mountain  boy  and  girl  should 
have  the  chance  in  the  world  that  had  already 
come  to  them.  He  began  to  wonder  how  much  of 
her  real  feeling  Marjorie  might  have  concealed — 
how  much  Gray  in  his  letters  was  keeping  back  of 
his.  Such  a  union  was  preposterous.  He  realized 
too  late  now  the  danger  to  youth  of  simple  prox 
imity — he  knew  the  exquisite  sensitiveness  of 
Gray  in  any  matter  that  meant  consideration  for 
others  and  for  his  own  honor,  the  generous  warm 
hearted  impulsiveness  of  Marjorie,  and  the  appeal 
that  any  romantic  element  in  the  situation  would 
make  to  them  both.  Perhaps  he  ought  to  go  to 
the  mountains.  There  was  much  he  might  say  to 
Gray,  but  what  to  Jason,  or  to  Marjorie,  with  that 
life-absorbing  motive  of  his  own — and  his  affairs 
at  such  a  crisis  ?  The  colonel  shook  his  head  help 
lessly.  He  was  very  tired,  and  wished  he  could 
put  the  matter  off  till  morning  when  he  was  rested 
and  his  head  was  clear,  but  the  questions  had  sunk 

323 


THE  HEART  OF  THE  HILLS 

talons  into  his  heart  and  brain  that  would  not  be 
unloosed,  and  the  colonel  rose  wearily  and  went 
within. 

Marjorie  looked  serious  after  she  told  her  mother 
that  night  that  she  feared  her  uncle  was  not  well, 
for  Mrs.  Pendleton  became  very  grave: 

"Your  Uncle  Robert  is  very  far  from  well. 
I'm  afraid  sometimes  he  is  sicker  than  any  of  us 
know." 

"Mother!" 

"And  he  is  in  great  trouble,  Marjorie." 

The  girl  hesitated  : 

"Money  trouble,  mother?"  she  asked  at  last. 
"Why,  you — we — why  don't " 

The  mother  interrupted  with  a  shake  of  her 
head: 

"He  would  go  bankrupt  first." 

"Mother?" 

The  older  woman  looked  up  with  apprehension, 
so  suddenly  charged  with  an  incredible  something 
was  the  girl's  tone: 

"Why  don't  you  marry  Uncle  Robert?" 

The  mother  clutched  at  her  heart  with  both 
hands,  for  an  actual  spasm  caught  her  there. 
Every  trace  of  color  shot  from  her  face,  and 
with  a  rush  came  back — fire.  She  rose,  gave  her 
daughter  one  look  that  was  almost  terror,  and 
quickly  left  the  room. 

Marjorie  sat  aghast.  She  had  caught  with  care- 
324 


THE  HEART  OF  THE  HILLS 

less  hand  the  veil  of  some  mystery — what  long- 
hidden  shrine  was  there  behind  it,  what  sacred 
deeps  long  still  had  she  stirred? 


325 


XXXVIII 

JASON  HAWN  rode  rapidly  to  one  of  Mor- 
**  ton  Sanders'  great  stables,  put  his  horse  away 
himself,  and,  avoiding  the  chance  of  meeting  John 
Burnham,  slipped  down  the  slope  to  the  creek, 
crossed  on  a  water  gap,  and  struck  across  the  sun 
set  fields  for  home.  He  had  felt  no  anger  at  Mar- 
jorie's  mysterious  outbreak — only  bewilderment; 
and  only  bewilderment  he  felt  now. 

But  as  he  strode  along  with  his  eyes  on  the 
ground,  things  began  to  clear  a  little.  The  fact 
was  that,  as  he  had  become  more  enthralled  by  the 
girl's  witcheries,  the  more  helpless  and  stupid  he 
had  become.  Marjorie's  nimble  wit  had  played 
about  his  that  afternoon  like  a  humming-bird 
around  a  sullen  sunflower.  He  hardly  knew  that 
every  word,  every  glance,  every  gesture  was  a 
challenge,  and  when  she  began  stinging  into  him 
sharp  little  arrows  of  taunt  and  sarcasm  he  was 
helpless  as  the  bull's-hide  target  at  which  the  two 
sometimes  practised  archery.  Even  now  when 
the  poisoned  points  began  to  fester,  he  could  stir 
himself  to  no  anger — he  only  felt  dazed  and  hurt 
and  sore.  Nobody  was  in  sight  when  he  reached 
his  mother's  home  and  he  sat  down  on  the  porch  in 
the  twilight  wretched  and  miserable.  Around  the 

326 


THE  HEART  OF  THE  HILLS 

corner  of  the  house  presently  he  heard  his  mother 
and  Steve  coming,  and  around  there  they  stopped 
for  some  reason  for  a  moment. 

"I  seed  Babe  Honeycutt  yestiddy,"  Steve  was 
saying.  "He  says  thar's  a  lot  o'  talk  goin'  on 
about  Mavis  an'  Gray  Pendleton.  The  Honey- 
cutts  air  doin'  most  o'  the  talkin'  an*  looks  like 
the  ole  trouble's  comin'  up  again.  Old  Jason  is 
tearin'  mad  an*  swears  Gray'll  have  to  git  out  o* 
them  mountains " 

Jason  heard  them  start  moving  and  he  rose  and 
went  quickly  within  that  they  might  know  he  had 
overheard.  After  supper  he  was  again  on  the 
porch  brooding  about  Mavis  and  Gray  when  his 
mother  came  out.  He  knew  that  she  wanted  to 
say  something,  and  he  waited. 

"Jason,"  she  said  finally,  "you  don't  believe 
Colonel  Pendleton  cheated  Steve — do  you?" 

"No,"  said  the  lad  sharply.  "Colonel  Pendle 
ton  never  cheated  anybody  in  his  life — except 
himself." 

"That's  all  I  wanted  to  know,"  she  sighed,  but 
Jason  knew  that  was  not  all  she  wanted  to  say. 

"Jason,  I  heerd  two  fellers  in  the  lane  to-day 
talkin'  about  tearin'  up  Colonel  Pendleton's  to 
bacco  beds." 

The  boy  was  startled,  but  he  did  not  show  it. 

"Nothin'  but  talk,  I  reckon." 

"Well,  if  I  was  in  his  place  I'd  git  some  guards." 

Marjorie  sat  at  her  window  a  long  time  that 
327 


THE  HEART  OF  THE  HILLS 

night  before  she  went  to  sleep.  Her  mother  had 
come  in,  had  held  her  tightly  to  her  breast,  and 
had  gone  out  with  only  a  whispered  good-night. 
And  while  the  girl  was  wondering  once  more  at  the 
strange  effect  of  her  naive  question,  she  recalled 
suddenly  the  yearning  look  of  her  uncle  that  af 
ternoon  when  she  had  mentioned  Gray's  name. 
Could  there  be  some  thwarted  hope  in  the  lives  of 
Gray's  father  and  her  mother  that  both  were  now 
trying  to  realize  in  the  lives  of  her  and  Gray  ?  Her 
mother  had  never  spoken  her  wish,  nor  doubtless 
Gray's  father  to  him — nor  was  it  necessary,  for  as 
children  they  had  decided  the  question  themselves, 
as  had  Mavis  and  Jason  Hawn,  and  had  talked 
about  it  with  the  same  frankness,  though  with  each 
pair  alike  the  matter  had  not  been  mentioned  for 
a  long  time.  Then  her  mind  leaped,  and  after  it 
leaped  her  heart — if  her  Uncle  Robert  would  not 
let  her  mother  help  him,  why,  she  too  could  never 
help  Gray,  unless — why,  of  course,  if  Gray  were  in 
trouble  she  would  marry  him  and  give  him  every 
thing  she  had.  The  thought  made  her  glow,  and 
she  began  to  wish  Gray  would  come  home.  He 
had  been  a  long  time  in  those  hills,  his  father  was 
sick  and  worried — and  what  was  he  doing  down 
there  anyhow?  He  had  mentioned  Mavis  often 
in  his  first  letters,  and  now  he  wrote  rarely,  and  he 
never  spoke  of  her  at  all.  She  began  to  get  resent 
ful  and  indignant,  not  only  at  him  but  at  Mavis, 
and  she  went  to  bed  wishing  more  than  ever  that 

328 


THE  HEART  OF  THE  HILLS 

Gray  would  come  home.  And  yet  playing  around 
in  her  brain  was  her  last  vision  of  that  mountain 
boy  standing  before  her,  white  and  silent — "like  a 
gentleman  " — and  that  vision  would  not  pass  even 
in  her  dreams. 

Through  Colonel  Pendleton's  bed-room  window 
an  hour  later  two  pistol  shots  rang  sharply,  and 
through  that  window  the  colonel  saw  a  man  leap 
the  fence  around  his  tobacco  beds  and  streak  for 
the  woods.  From  the  shadow  of  a  tree  at  his 
yard  fence  another  flame  burst,  and  by  its  light  he 
saw  a  crouching  figure.  He  called  out  sharply,  the 
figure  rose  and  came  toward  him,  and  in  the  moon 
light  the  colonel  saw  uplifted  to  him,  apologetic 
and  half  shamed,  the  face  of  Jason  Hawn. 

"No  harm,  colonel,"  he  called.  "Somebody 
was  tearing  up  your  tobacco  beds  and  I  just  scared 
him  off.  I  didn't  try  to  hit  him." 

The  colonel  was  dazed,  but  he  spoke  at  last 
gently. 

"Well,  well,  I  can't  let  you  lose  your  sleep  this 
way,  Jason;  I'll  get  some  guards  now." 

"If  you  won't  let  me,"  said  the  boy  quickly, 
"you  ought  to  send  for  Gray." 

The  old  gentleman  looked  thoughtful. 

"Of  course,  perhaps  I  ought — why,  I  will." 

"He  won't  come  again  to-night,"  said  Jason. 
"I  shot  close  enough  to  scare  him,  I  reckon. 
Good-night,  colonel." 

"Thank  you,  my  boy — good-night." 
329. 


XXXIX 

|"T  was  court  day  at  the  county-seat.  A  Honey- 
cutt  had  shot  down  a  Hawn  in  the  open  street, 
had  escaped,  and  a  Hawn  posse  was  after  him. 
The  incident  was  really  a  far  effect  of  the  recent 
news  that  Jason  Hawn  was  soon  coming  back  home 
— and  coming  back  to  live.  Straightway  the  pro 
fessional  sneaks  and  scandal-mongers  of  both  fac 
tions  got  busy  to  such  purpose  that  the  Honey- 
cutts  were  ready  to  believe  that  the  sole  purpose 
of  Jason's  return  was  to  revive  the  feud  and  in 
cidentally  square  a  personal  account  with  little 
Aaron.  Old  Jason  Hawn  had  started  home  that 
afternoon  almost  apoplectic  with  rage,  for  word 
had  been  brought  him  that  little  Aaron  had  openly 
said  that  it  was  high  time  that  Jason  Hawn  came 
home  to  look  after  his  cousin  and  Gray  Pendleton 
went  home  to  take  care  of  his.  It  was  a  double 
insult,  and  to  the  old  man's  mind  subtly  charged 
with  a  low  meaning.  Old  as  he  was,  he  had  tried 
to  find  little  Aaron,  but  the  boy  had  left  town. 

Gray  and  Mavis  were  seated  on  the  old  man's 
porch  when  he  came  in  sight  of  his  house,  for  it  was 
Saturday,  and  Mavis  started  the  moment  she  saw 
her  grandfather's  face,  and  rose  to  meet  him. 

"What's  the  matter,  grandpap?"  The  old 
330 


THE  HEART  OP  THE  HILLS 

man  waved  her  back.  "Git  back  inter  the  house," 
he  commanded  shortly.  "No — stay  whar  you  air. 
When  do  you  two  aim  to  git  married  ? "  Had  a  bolt 
of  lightning  flashed  through  the  narrow  sunlit 
space  between  him  and  them,  the  pair  could  not 
have  been  more  startled,  blinded.  Mavis  flushed 
angrily,  paled,  and  wheeled  into  the  house.  Gray 
rose  in  physical  response  to  the  physical  threat  in 
the  old  man's  tone  and  fearlessly  met  the  eyes  that 
were  glaring  at  him. 

"I  don't  know  what  you  mean,  Mr.  Hawn,"  he 
said  respectfully.  "I- 

"The  hell  you  don't,"  broke  in  the  old  man  furi 
ously.  "I'll  give  ye  jes  two  minutes  to  hit  the 
road  and  git  a  license.  I'll  give  ye  an  hour  an'  a 
half  to  git  back.  An'  if  you  don't  come  back  I'll 
make  Jason  foller  you  to  the  mouth  o'  the  pit  o' 
hell  an'  bring  ye  back  alive  or  dead."  Again  the 
boy  tried  to  speak,  but  the  old  man  would  not 
listen. 

"Git!"  he  cried,  and,  as  the  boy  still  made  no 
move,  old  Jason  hurried  on  trembling  legs  into 
the  house.  Gray  heard  him  cursing  and  searching 
inside,  and  at  the  corner  of  the  house  appeared 
Mavis  with  both  of  the  old  man's  pistols  and  his 
Winchester. 

"Go  on,  Gray,"  she  said,  and  her  face  was  still 
red  with  shame.  "You'll  only  make  him  worse, 
an'  he'll  kill  you  sure." 

Gray  shook  his  head:  "No!" 
331 


THE  HEART  OF  THE  HILLS 

"Please,  Gray,"  she  pleaded;  "for  God's  sake— 
for  my  sake." 

That  the  boy  could  not  withstand.  He  started 
for  the  gate  with  his  hat  in  hand — his  head  high, 
and,  as  he  slowly  passed  through  the  gate  and 
turned,  the  old  man  reappeared,  looked  fiercely 
after  him,  and  sank  into  a  chair  sick  with  rage  and 
trembling.  As  Mavis  walked  toward  him  with  his 
weapons  he  glared  at  her,  but  she  passed  him  by  as 
though  she  did  not  see  him,  and  put  the  Winchester 
and  pistols  in  their  accustomed  places.  She  came 
out  with  her  bonnet  in  her  hand,  and  already  her 
calmness  and  her  silence  had  each  had  its  effect — 
old  Jason  was  still  trembling,  but  from  his  eyes  the 
rage  was  gone. 

"I'm  goin'  home,  grandpap,"  she  said  quietly, 
"an5  if  it  wasn't  for  grandma  I  wouldn't  come 
back.  You've  been  bullyin'  an'  rough-ridin'  over 
men-folks  and  women-folks  all  your  life,  but  you 
can't  do  it  no  more  with  me.  An'  you're  not  goin' 
to  meddle  in  my  business  any  more.  You  know 
I'm  a  good  girl — why  didn't  you  go  after  the  folks 
who've  been  talkin'  instead  o'  pitchin'  into  Gray  ? 
You  know  he'd  die  before  he'd  harm  a  hair  o'  my 
head  or  allow  you  or  anybody  else  to  say  any 
thing  against  my  good  name.  An'  I  tell  you  to 
your  face" — her  tone  fiercened  suddenly — "if  you 
hadn't  'a'  been  an  old  man  an'  my  grandfather, 
he'd  'a'  killed  you  right  here.  An'  I'm  goin'  to 
tell  you  something  more.  He  ain't  responsible 

332 


THE  HEART  OF  THE  HILLS 

for  this  talk — I  am.  He  didn't  know  it  was  goin' 
on — /  did.  I'm  not  goin'  to  marry  him  to  please 
you  an'  the  miserable  tattletales  you've  been  lis- 
tenin'  to.  I  reckon  /  ain't  good  enough — but  I 
know  my  kinfolks  ain't  fit  to  be  his — even  by 
marriage.  My  daddy  ain't,  an'  you  ain't,  an' 
there  ain't  but  one  o'  the  whole  o'  our  tribe  who 
is — an5  that's  little  Jason  Hawn.  Now  you  let 
him  alone  an'  you  let  me  alone." 

She  put  her  bonnet  on,  flashed  to  the  gate,  and 
disappeared  in  the  dusk  down  the  road.  The  old 
man's  shaggy  head  had  dropped  forward  on  his 
chest,  he  had  shrunk  down  in  his  chair  bewildered, 
and  he  sat  there  a  helpless,  unanswering  heap. 
When  the  moon  rose,  Mavis  was  seated  on  the 
porch  with  her  chin  in  both  hands.  The  old  circuit 
rider  and  his  wife  had  gone  to  bed.  A  whippoor- 
will  was  crying  with  plaintive  persistence  far  up  a 
ravine,  and  the  night  was  deep  and  still  about  her, 
save  for  the  droning  of  insect  life  from  the  gloomy 
woods.  Straight  above  her  stars  glowed  thickly, 
and  in  a  gap  of  the  hills  beyond  the  river,  where  the 
sun  had  gone  down,  the  evening  star  still  hung  like 
a  great  jewel  on  the  velvety  violet  curtain  of  the 
night,  and  upon  that  her  eyes  were  fixed.  On  the 
spur  above,  her  keen  ears  caught  the  soft  thud 
of  a  foot  against  a  stone,  and  her  heart  answered. 
She  heard  a  quick  leap  across  the  branch,  the  sound 
of  a  familiar  stride  along  the  road,  and  saw  the 
quick  coming  of  a  familiar  figure  along  the  edge  of 

333 


THE  HEART  OF  THE  HILLS 

the  moonlight,  but  she  sat  where  she  was  and  as 
she  was  until  Gray,  with  hat  in  hand,  stood  before 
her,  and  then  only  did  she  lift  to  him  eyes  that 
were  dark  as  the  night  but  shining  like  that  sink 
ing  star  in  the  little  gap.  The  boy  went  down  on 
one  knee  before  her,  and  gently  pulled  both  of  her 
hands  away  from  her  face  with  both  his  own,  and 
held  them  tightly. 

"Mavis,"  he  said,  "I  want  you  to  marry  me — 
won't  you,  Mavis?" 

The  girl  showed  no  surprise,  said  nothing — she 
only  disengaged  her  hands,  took  his  face  into 
them,  and  looked  with  unwavering  silence  deep 
into  his  eyes,  looked  until  he  saw  that  the  truth  was 
known  in  hers,  and  then  he  dropped  his  face  into 
her  lap  and  she  put  her  hands  on  his  head  and 
bent  over  him,  so  that  her  heart  beat  with  the 
throbbing  at  his  temples.  For  a  moment  she  held 
him  as  though  she  were  shielding  him  from  every 
threatening  danger,  and  then  she  lifted  his  face 
again. 

"No,  Gray — it  won't  do — hush,  now."  She 
paused  a  moment  to  get  self-control,  and  then  she 
went  on  rapidly,  as  though  what  she  had  to  say 
had  been  long  prepared  and  repeated  to  herself 
many  times: 

"I  knew  you  were  coming  to-night.  I  know 
why  you  were  so  late.  I  know  why  you  came. 
Hush,  now — I  know  all  that,  too.  Why,  Gray, 
ever  since  I  saw  you  the  first  time — you  remember? 

334 


THE  HEART  OF  THE  HILLS 

— why,  it  seems  to  me  that  ever  since  then,  even, 
I've  been  thinkin'  o'  this  very  hour.  All  the  time 
I  was  goin'  to  school  when  I  first  went  to  the  Blue- 
grass,  when  I  was  walkin'  in  the  fields  and  workin' 
around  the  house  and  always  lookin'  to  the  road 
to  see  you  passin'  by — I  was  thinkin',  thinkin'  all 
the  time.  It  seems  to  me  every  night  of  my  life  I 
went  to  sleep  thinkin' — I  was  alone  so  much  and 
I  was  so  lonely.  It  was  all  mighty  puzzlin'  to 
me,  but  that  time  you  didn't  take  me  to  that 
dance — hush  now — I  began  to  understand.  I  told 
Jason  an'  he  only  got  mad.  He  didn't  understand, 
for  he  was  wilful  and  he  was  a  man,  and  men 
don't  somehow  seem  to  see  and  take  things  like 
women — they  just  want  to  go  ahead  and  make 
them  the  way  they  want  them.  But  I  understood 
right  then.  And  then  when  I  come  here  the 
thinkin'  started  all  over  again  differently  when  I 
was  goin'  back  and  forwards  from  school  and 
walkin'  around  in  the  woods  and  listenin'  to  the 
wood-thrushes,  and  sittin'  here  in  the  porch  at 
night  alone  and  lyin'  up  in  the  loft  there  lookin' 
out  of  the  little  window.  And  when  I  heard  you 
were  comin'  here  I  got  to  thinkin'  differently,  be 
cause  I  got  to  hopin'  differently  and  wonderin'  if 
some  miracle  mightn't  yet  happen  in  this  world 
once  more.  But  I  watched  you  here,  and  the 
more  I  watched  you,  the  more  I  began  to  go  back 
and  think  as  I  used  to  think.  Your  people  ain't 
mine,  Gray,  nor  mine  yours,  and  they  won't  be — 

335 


THE  HEART  OF  THE  HILLS 

not  in  our  lifetime.  I've  seen  you  shrinkin'  when 
you've  been  with  me  in  the  houses  of  some  of  my 
own  kin — shrinkin'  at  the  table  at  grandpap's 
and  here,  at  the  way  folks  eat  an'  live — shrinkin' 
at  oaths  and  loud  voices  and  rough  talk  and  liquor- 
drinkin'  and  all  this  talk  about  killin'  people,  as 
though  they  were  nothin'  but  hogs — shrinkin'  at 
everybody  but  me.  If  we  stayed  here,  the  time 
would  come  when  you'd  be  shrinkin'  from  me — 
don't  now!  But  you  ain't  goin'  to  stay  here, 
Gray.  I've  heard  Uncle  Arch  say  you'd  never 
make  a  business  man.  You're  too  trustin',  you've 
been  a  farmer  and  a  gentleman  for  too  many  gen 
erations.  You're  goin'  back  home — you've  got  to 
— some  day — I  know  that,  and  then  the  time  would 
come  when  you'd  be  ashamed  of  me  if  I  went  with 
you.  It's  the  same  way  with  Jason  and  Marjorie. 
Jason  will  have  to  come  back  here — how  do  you 
suppose  Marjorie  would  feel  here,  bein'  a  woman, 
if  you  feel  the  way  you  do,  bein'  a  man?  Why, 
the  time  would  come  when  she'd  be  ashamed  o' 
him — only  worse.  It  won't  do,  Gray."  She 
turned  his  face  toward  the  gap  in  the  hills. 

"You  see  that  star  there?  Well,  that's  your 
star,  Gray.  I  named  it  for  you,  and  every  night 
I've  been  lookin'  out  at  it  from  my  window  in  the 
loft.  And  that's  what  you've  been  to  me  and  what 
Marjorie's  been  to  Jason — just  a  star — a  dream. 
We're  not  really  real  to  each  other — you  an'  me — 
and  Marjorie  and  Jason  ain't.  Only  Jason  and  I 

336 


THE  HEART  OF  THE  HILLS 

are  real  to  each  other  and  only  you  and  Marjoi. 
Jason  and  I  have  been  worshippin'  stars,  ana 
they Ve  looked  down  mighty  kindly  on  us,  so  that 
they  came  mighty  nigh  foolin'  us  and  themselves. 
I  read  a  book  the  other  day  that  said  ideals  were 
stars  and  were  good  to  point  the  way,  but  that 
people  needed  lamps  to  follow  that  way.  It  won't 
do,  Gray.  You  are  goin'  back  home  to  carry  a 
lamp  for  Marjorie,  and  maybe  Jason'll  come  back 
to  these  hills  to  carry  a  lantern  for  me." 

Throughout  the  long  speech  the  boy's  eyes  had 
never  wavered  from  hers.  After  one  or  two  ef 
forts  to  protest  he  had  listened  quite  intensely,  mar 
velling  at  the  startling  revelation  of  such  depths  of 
mind  and  heart — the  startling  penetration  to  the 
truth,  for  he  knew  it  was  the  truth.  And  when 
she  rose  he  stayed  where  he  was,  clinging  to  her 
hand,  and  kissing  it  reverently.  He  was  speechless 
even  when,  obeying  the  impulse  of  her  hand,  he 
rose  in  front  of  her  and  she  smiled  gently. 

"You  don't  have  to  say  one  word,  Gray — I  un 
derstand,  bless  your  dear,  dear  heart,  I  under 
stand.  Good-by,  now."  She  stretched  out  her 
hand,  but  his  trembling  lips  and  the  wounded 
helplessness  in  his  eyes  were  too  much  for  her,  and 
she  put  her  arms  around  him,  drew  his  head  to 
her  breast,  and  a  tear  followed  her  kiss  to  his  fore 
head.  At  the  door  she  paused  a  moment. 

"And  until  he  comes,"  she  half-whispered,  "I 
reckon  I'll  keep  my  lamp  burning."  Then  she 
was  gone. 

337 


THE  HEART  OF  THE  HILLS 

Slowly  the  boy  climbed  back  to  the  little  house 
on  the  spur,  and  to  the  porch,  on  which  he  sank 
wearily.  While  hq  and  Marjorie  and  Jason  were 
blundering  into  a  hopeless  snarl  of  all  their  lives, 
this  mountain  girl,  alone  with  the  hills  and  the 
night  and  the  stars,  had  alone  found  the  truth — 
and  she  had  pointed  the  way.  The  camp  lights 
twinkled  below.  The  moon  swam  in  majestic 
splendor  above.  The  evening  star  still  hung  above 
the  little  western  gap  in  the  hills.  It  was  his  star; 
it  was  sinking  fast:  and  she  would  keep  her  lamp 
burning.  When  he  climbed  to  his  room,  the  cry 
of  the  whippoorwill  in  the  ravine  came  to  him 
through  his  window — futile,  persistent,  like  a  hu 
man  wail  for  happiness.  The  boy  went  to  his 
knees  at  his  bedside  that  night,  and  the  prayer 
that  went  on  high  from  the  depths  of  his  heart  was 
that  God  would  bring  the  wish  of  her  heart  to 
Mavis  Hawn. 


338 


XL 


RAY  PENDLETON  was  coming  home.  Like 
Jason,  he,  too,  waited  at  the  little  junction 
for  dawn,  and  swept  along  the  red  edge  of  it,  over 
the  yellow  Kentucky  River  and  through  the  blue- 
grass  fields.  Drawn  up  at  the  station  was  his 
father's  carriage  and  in  it  sat  Marjorie,  with  a 
radiant  smile  of  welcome  which  gave  way  to  sud 
den  tears  when  they  clasped  hands  —  tears  that 
she  did  not  try  to  conceal.  Uncle  Robert  was  in 
bed,  she  said,  and  Gray  did  not  perceive  any  sig 
nificance  in  the  tone  with  which  she  added,  that 
her  mother  hardly  ever  left  him.  She  did  not  know 
what  the  matter  was,  but  he  was  very  pale,  and  he 
seemed  to  be  growing  weaker.  The  doctor  was 
cheery  and  hopeful,  but  her  mother,  she  empha 
sized,  was  most  alarmed,  and  again  Gray  did  not 
notice  the  girl's  peculiar  tone.  Nor  did  the  colonel 
seem  to  be  worried  by  the  threats  of  the  night 
riders.  It  was  Jason  Hawn  who  was  worried  and 
had  persuaded  the  colonel  to  send  for  Gray.  The 
girl  halted  when  she  spoke  Jason's  name,  and  the 
boy  looked  up  to  find  her  face  scarlet  and  her  eyes 
swerve  suddenly  from  his  to  the  passing  fields. 
But  as  quickly  they  swerved  back  to  find  Gray's 
face  aflame  with  the  thought  of  Mavis.  For  a 

339 


THE  HEART  OF  THE  HILLS 

moment  both  looked  straight  ahead  in  silence,  and 
in  that  silence  Marjorie  became  aware  that  Gray 
had  not  asked  about  Jason,  and  Gray  that  Mar 
jorie  had  not  mentioned  Mavis's  name.  But  now 
both  made  the  omission  good — and  Gray  spoke 
first. 

Mavis  was  well.  She  was  still  teaching  school. 
She  had  lived  a  life  of  pathetic  loneliness,  but  she 
had  developed  in  an  amazing  way  through  that 
very  fact,  and  she  had  grown  very  beautiful.  She 
had  startled  him  by  her  insight  into — he  halted 
— into  everything — and  how  was  Jason  getting 
along?  The  girl  had  been  listening,  covertly 
watching,  and  had  grown  quite  calm.  Jason,  too, 
was  well,  but  he  looked  worried  and  overworked. 
His  examinations  were  going  on  now.  He  had 
written  his  graduating  speech  but  had  not  shown 
it  to  her,  though  he  had  said  he  would.  Her 
mother  and  Uncle  Robert  had  grown  very  fond  of 
him  and  admired  him  greatly,  but  lately  she  had 
not  seen  him,  he  was  "so  busy.  Again  there  was  a 
long  silence  between  them,  but  when  they  reached 
the  hill  whence  both  their  homes  were  visible  Mar 
jorie  began  as  though  she  must  get  out  something 
that  was  on  her  mind  before  they  reached  Colonel 
Pendleton's  gate. 

"Gray,"  she  said  hesitantly  and  so  seriously 
that  the  boy  turned  to  her,  "did  it  ever  cross  your 
mind  that  there  was  ever  any  secret  between 
Uncle  Robert  and  mother?" 

340 


THE  HEART  OF  THE  HILLS 

The  boy's  startled  look  was  answer  enough  and 
she  went  on  telling  him  of  the  question  she  had 
asked  her  mother. 

"Sometimes,"  she  finished,  "I  think  that  your 
father  and  my  mother  must  have  loved  each  other 
first  and  that  something  kept  them  from  marrying. 
I  know  that  they  must  have  talked  it  over  lately, 
for  there  seems  to  be  a  curious  understanding  be 
tween  them  now,  and  the  sweetest  peace  has  come 
to  both  of  them." 

She  paused,  and  Gray,  paralyzed  with  wonder, 
still  made  no  answer.  They  had  passed  through 
the  gate  now  and  in  a  moment  more  would  be 
at  Gray's  home.  Around  each  barn  Gray  saw  an 
armed  guard;  there  was  another  at  the  yard  gate, 
and  there  were  two  more  on  the  steps  of  the  big 
portico. 

"Maybe,"  the  girl  went  on  naively,  almost  as 
though  she  were  talking  to  herself,  "that's  why 
they've  both  always  been  so  anxious  to  have  us — " 
Again  she  stopped — scarlet. 


341 


XLI 

TASON  HAWN'S  last  examination  was  over,  and 
*^  he  stepped  into  the  first  June  sunlight  and  drew 
it  into  his  lungs  with  deep  relief.  Looking  up 
ward  from  the  pavement  below,  the  old  president 
saw  his  confident  face. 

"It  seems  you  are  not  at  all  uneasy,"  he  said, 
and  his  keen  old  eyes  smiled  humorously. 

Jason  reddened  a  little. 

"No,  sir— I'm  not." 

"Nor  am  I,"  said  the  old  gentleman,  "nor  will 
you  forget  that  this  little  end  is  only  the  big  be 
ginning." 

"Thank  you,  sir." 

"You  are  going  back  home ?  You  will  be  needed 
there." 

"Yes,  sir." 

"Good!" 

It  was  the  longest  talk  Jason  had  ever  had  with 
the  man  he  all  but  worshipped,  and  while  it  was 
going  on  the  old  scholar  was  painfully  climbing  the 
steps — so  that  the  last  word  was  flung  back  with 
the  sharp,  soldier-like  quality  of  a  command  given 
by  an  officer  who  turned  his  back  with  perfect 
trust  that  it  would  be  obeyed,  and  in  answer  to 
that  trust  the  boy's  body  straightened  and  his  very 

342 


THE  HEART  OF  THE  HILLS 

soul  leaped.  He  went  to  his  room  in  the  seniors' 
hall  that  was  called  "Heaven"  by  the  lower 
classmen  and  dropped  into  a  chair  by  the  open 
window.  He  looked  around  at  his  books,  and  he 
already  felt  the  pang  of  parting  from  old  friends. 
But,  after  all,  it  was  a  little  end,  and  the  big  be 
ginning  was  at  that  moment  at  hand — a  begin 
ning  that  the  old  president  did  not  suspect.  Gray 
Pendleton  had  come  home  to  trouble,  and  while 
his  friend  is  in  trouble,  the  mountaineer's  trouble 
does  not  end.  Jason  sprang  from  his  chair,  went 
to  his  boarding-house  for  a  hasty  lunch,  and 
started  for  the  court-house.  There  he  had  himself 
sworn  in  as  a  deputy  sheriff,  and  busy  with 
thoughts  of  the  threats  of  the  night  riders  that 
had  reached  him  through  his  mother,  he  saw  from 
the  court-house  steps  a  crowd  gathering  down  the 
street  on  each  side  of  the  main  street,  and  soon 
down  it  came  a  militia  company  with  a  Gatling-gun 
in  its  midst.  The  tobacco  warehouses  of  the  town 
were  threatened  and  the  county  judge  was  waking 
up.  On  he  hurried  to  his  mother's  home — his 
every  speculation  busy  with  Steve  Hawn.  Steve 
was  not  the  man  who  had  tried  to  destroy  Colonel 
Pendleton's  tobacco  beds,  for  his  mother  had  as 
sured  him  that  her  husband  was  at  home  that  night 
and  asleep.  He  began  to  wonder  if  his  mother 
were  protecting  Steve  and  at  the  same  time  trying 
to  prevent  all  the  mischief  she  could,  for  lately 
Steve  had  been  quiet  and  secretive,  and  had  talked 

343 


THE  HEART  OF  THE  HILLS 

much  about  changing  his  ways,  that  he  no  longer 
had  any  resentment  against  Colonel  Pendleton,  and 
wanted  now  to  live  a  better  life.  His  talk  might 
have  fooled  Jason  but  for  the  fact  that  he  shrewdly 
noted  the  little  effect  it  all  had  on  his  mother.  En 
tering  the  mouth  of  the  lane,  Jason  saw  Steve 
going  from  the  yard  gate  to  the  house,  and  his 
brows  wrinkled  angrily — Steve  was  staggering. 
He  came  to  the  door  and  glared  at  Jason. 

"Whut  you  doin'  out  hyeh?" 

"I'm  goin'  to  see  Gray  through  his  troubles," 
said  Jason  quietly. 

"I  kind  o'  thought  you  had  troubles  enough  o' 
yo'  own,"  sneered  the  man. 

Jason  did  not  answer.  His  mother  was  seated 
within  with  her  back  to  the  door,  and  when  she 
turned  Jason  saw  that  she  had  been  weeping,  and, 
catching  sight  of  a  red  welt  on  her  temple,  he 
walked  over  to  her. 

"How'd  that  happen,  mammy?" 

She  hesitated  and  Jason  whirled  with  such  fury 
that  his  mother  caught  him  with  both  arms,  and 
Steve  lost  no  time  reaching  for  his  gun. 

"I  jammed  it  agin  the  kitchen  door,  Jasie." 

He,  looked  at  her,  knew  that  she  was  lying,  and 
when  he  turned  to  go,  halted  at  the  door. 

"If  you  ever  touch  my  mother  again,"  he  said 
with  terrifying  quiet,  "I'll  kill  you  as  sure  as  there 
is  a  God  in  heaven  to  forgive  me." 

Across  the  midsummer  fields  Jason  went  swiftly. 
344 


THE  HEART  OF  THE  HILLS 

On  his  right,  half  of  a  magnificent  woodland  was 
being  laid  low — on  his  left,  another  was  all  gone — 
and  with  Colonel  Pendleton  both,  he  knew,  had 
been  heart-breaking  deeds  of  necessity,  for  his  first 
duty,  that  gentleman  claimed,  was  to  his  family 
and  to  his  creditors,  and  nobody  could  rob  him  of 
his  right  to  do  what  he  pleased,  much  less  what  he 
ought,  with  his  own  land.  And  so  the  colonel 
still  stood  out  against  friend  and  neighbor,  and 
open  and  secret  foes.  His  tobacco  beds  had  been 
raided,  one  of  his  barns  had  been  burned,  his  cattle 
had  been  poisoned,  and,  sick  as  he  was,  threats 
were  yet  coming  in  that  the  night  riders  would 
burn  his  house  and  take  his  life.  Across  the  turn 
pike  were  the  fields  and  untouched  woodlands  of 
Marjorie,  and  it  looked  as  though  the  hand  of 
Providence  had  blessed  one  side  of  the  road  and 
withered  the  other  with  a  curse.  On  top  of  the 
orchard ,  fence,  to  the  western  side  of  the  house, 
Jason  sat  a  while.  The  curse  was  descending  on 
Gray's  innocent  head  and  he  had  had  the  weakness 
and  the  folly  to  lift  his  eyes  to  the  blessing  across 
the  way.  As  Mavis  had  pointed  out  the  way  to 
Gray,  so  Marjorie,  without  knowing  it,  had  pointed 
the  way  for  him.  When  long  ago  he  had  been 
helpless  before  her  by  the  snow-fringed  willows  at 
the  edge  of  the  pond  in  the  old  college  yard,  she  had 
been  frightened  and  had  shrunk  away.  When  he 
gained  his  self-control,  she  had  lost  hers,  and  in  her 
loneliness  had  come  trailing  toward  him  almost  like 

345 


THE  HEART  OF  THE  HILLS 

a  broken-winged  young  bird  looking  for  mother 
help — and  he  had  not  misunderstood,  though  his 
heart  ached  for  her  suffering  as  it  ached  for  her. 
And  Marjorie  had  been  quite  right — he  had  never 
come  back  after  that  one  quarrel,  and  he  would 
never  come.  The  old  colonel  had  gone  to  him,  but 
he  had  hardly  more  than  opened  his  lips  when  he 
had  both  hands  on  the  boy's  shoulders  with  broken 
words  of  sympathy  and  then  had  turned  away — so 
quickly  had  he  seen  that  Jason  fully  understood  the 
situation  and  had  disposed  of  it  firmly,  proudly, 
and  finally — for  himself.  The  mountains  were  for 
Jason — there  were  his  duty  and  the  work  of  his  life. 
Under  June  apples  turning  golden,  and  amid  the 
buzzing  of  bees,  the  boy  went  across  the  orchard, 
and  at  the  fence  he  paused  again.  Marjorie  and 
her  mother  were  coming  out  of  the  house  with 
Gray,  and  Jason  watched  them  walk  to  the  stile. 
Gray  was  tanned,  and  even  his  blonde  head  had 
been  turned  copper  by  the  mountain  sun,  while 
the  girl  looked  like  a  great  golden-hearted  lily. 
But  it  was  Gray's  face  as  he  looked  at  her  that 
caught  the  boy's  eyes  and  held  them  fast,  for  the 
face  was  tense,  eager,  and  worshipping. 

He  saw  Marjorie  and  her  mother  drive  away, 
saw  Gray  wave  to  them  and  turn  back  to  the 
house,  and  then  he  was  so  shocked  at  the  quick 
change  to  haggard  worry  that  draped  his  friend 
like  a  cloak  from  head  to  foot  that  he  could  hardly 
call  to  him.  And  so  Jason  waited  till  Gray  had 

346 


THE  HEART  OF  THE  HILLS 

passed  within,  and  then  he  leaped  the  fence  and 
made  for  the  portico.  Gray  himself  answered  his 
ring  and  with  a  flashing  smile  hurried  forward  when 
he  saw  Jason  in  the  doorway.  The  two  clasped 
hands  and  for  one  swift  instant  searched  each 
other's  eyes  with  questions  too  deep  and  delicate 
to  be  put  into  words — each  wondering  how  much 
the  other  might  know,  each  silent  if  the  other  did 
not  know.  For  Gray  had  learned  from  his  father 
about  Steve  Hawn,  and  Jason's  suspicions  of  Steve 
he  had  kept  to  himself. 

"My  father  would  like  to  have  you  as  our 
guest,  Jason,  while  I  am  here,"  Gray  said  with 
some  embarrassment,  "but  he  doesn't  feel  like  let 
ting  you  take  the  risk." 

Jason  threw  back  the  lapel  of  his  coat  that  cov 
ered  his  badge  as  deputy. 

"That's  what  I'm  here  for,"  he  said  with  a 
smile,  "but  I  think  I'd  better  stay  at  home.  I'll 
be  on  hand  when  the  trouble  comes." 

Gray,  too,  smiled. 

"You  don't  have  to  tell  me  that." 

"How  is  the  colonel?" 

"He's  pretty  bad.     He  wants  to  see  you."  • 

Jason  lowered  his  voice  when  they  entered  the 
hallway.  "The  soldiers  have  reached  town  to-day. 
If  there's  anything  going  to  be  done,  it  will  prob 
ably  be  done  to-night." 

"I  know." 

"We  won't  tell  the  colonel." 
347 


THE  HEART  OF  THE  HILLS 

"No." 

Then  Gray  led  the  way  to  the  sick-room  and 
softly  opened  the  door.  In  a  great  canopied  bed 
lay  Colonel  Pendleton  with  his  face  turned  toward 
the  window,  through  which  came  the  sun  and  air, 
the  odors  and  bird-songs  of  spring-time,  and  when 
that  face  turned,  Jason  was  shocked  by  its  waste 
and  whiteness  and  by  the  thinness  of  the  hand  that 
was  weakly  thrust  out  to  him.  But  the  fire  of  the 
brilliant  eyes  burned  as  ever;  there  was  with  him, 
prone  in  bed,  still  the  same  demeanor  of  stately 
courtesy;  and  Jason  felt  his  heart  melt  and  then  fill 
as  always  with  admiration  for  the  man,  the  gentle 
man,  who  unconsciously  had  played  such  a  part 
in  the  moulding  of  his  own  life,  and  as  always  with 
the  recognition  of  the  unbridgable  chasm  between 
them — between  even  him  and  Gray.  The  bitter 
resentment  he  had  first  felt  against  this  chasm  was 
gone  now,  for  now  he  understood  and  accepted. 
As  men  the  three  were  equal,  but  father  and  son 
had  three  generations  the  start  of  him.  He  could 
see  in  them  what  he  lacked  himself,  and  what  they 
were  without  thought  he  could  only  consciously 
try  to  be — and  he  would  keep  on  trying.  The 
sick  man  turned  his  face  again  to  the  window  and 
the  morning  air.  When  he  turned  again  he  was 
smiling  faintly  and  his  voice  was  friendly  and  af 
fectionate  : 

"Jason,  I  know  why  you  are  here.  I'm  not 
going  to  thank  you,  but  I — Gray" — he  paused  ever 

348 


THE  HEART  OF  THE  HILLS 

so  little,  and  Jason  sadly  knew  what  it  meant — 
"will  never  forget  it.  I  want  you  two  boys  to  be 
friends  as  long  as  you  live.  I'm  sorry,  but  it  looks 
as  though  you  would  both  have  to  give  up  your 
selves  to  business — particularly  sorry  about  Gray, 
for  that  is  my  fault.  For  the  good  of  our  State  I 
wish  you  both  were  going  to  sit  side  by  side  at 
Frankfort,  in  Congress,  and  the  Senate,  and  fight 
it  out" — he  smiled  whimsically — "some  day  for 
the  nomination  for  the  Presidency.  The  poor  old 
commonwealth  is  in  a  bad  way,  and  it  needs  just 
such  boys  as  you  two  are.  The  war  started  us 
downhill,  but  we  might  have  done  better — I  know 
I  might.  The  earth  was  too  rich — it  made  life  too 
easy.  The  horse,  the  bottle  of  whiskey,  and  the 
plug  of  tobacco  were  all  too  easily  the  best — 
and  the  pistol  always  too  ready.  We've  been  car 
tooned  through  the  world  with  a  fearsome,  half- 
contemptuous  slap  on  the  back.  Our  living  has 
been  made  out  of  luxuries.  Agriculturally,  so 
cially,  politically,  we  have  gone  wrong,  and  but  for 
the  American  sense  of  humor  the  State  would  be 
in  a  just,  nation-wide  contempt.  The  Ku-Klux, 
the  burning  of  toll-gates,  the  Goebel  troubles,  and 
the  night  rider  are  all  links  in  the  same  chain  of  law 
lessness,  and  but  for  the  first  the  others  might  not 
have  been.  But  we  are,  in  spite  of  all  this,  a  law- 
abiding  people,  and  the  old  manhood  of  the  State 
is  still  here.  Don't  forget  that — the  old  manhood 


is  here." 


349 


THE  HEART  OF  THE  HILLS 

Jason  had  sat  eager-eyed  and  listening  hard. 
Bewildered  Gray  felt  his  tears  welling,  for  never 
had  he  heard  in  all  his  life  his  father  talk  this  way. 
Again  Colonel  Pendleton  turned  his  face  to  the 
window  and  went  on  as  though  to  the  world  out 
side. 

"I  wouldn't  let  anybody  out  there  say  this 
about  us,  nor  would  you,  and  maybe  if  I  thought 
I  was  going  to  live  many  years  longer  I  might  not 
be  saying  it  now,  for  some  Kentuckian  might  yet 
make  me  eat  my  words." 

At  this  the  eyes  of  the  two  boys  crossed  and 
both  smiled  faintly,  for  though  the  sick  man  had 
been  a  generous  liver,  his  palate  could  never  have 
known  the  taste  of  one  of  his  own  words. 

"I  don't  know — but  our  ambition  is  either  dy 
ing  or  sinking  to  a  lower  plane,  and  what  a  pity, 
for  the  capacity  is  still  here  to  keep  "the  old  giants 
still  alive  if  the  young  men  could  only  see,  feel,  and 
try.  And  if  I  were  as  young  as  one  of  you  two 
boys,  I'd  try  to  find  and  make  the  appeal" 

He  turned  his  brilliant  eyes  to  Jason  and  looked 
for  a  moment  silently. 

"The  death-knell  of  me  and  mine  has  been 
sounded  unless  boys  like  Gray  here  keep  us  alive 
after  death,  but  the  light  of  your  hills  is  only  dawn- 
ning.  It's  a  case  of  the  least  shall  be  first,  for 
your  pauper  counties  are  going  to  be  the  richest 
in  the  State.  The  Easterners  are  buying  up  our 
farms  as  they  would  buy  a  yacht  or  a  motor-car, 

350 


THE  HEART  OF  THE  HILLS 

the  tobacco  tenants  are  getting  their  mites  of  land 
here  and  there,  and  even  you  mountaineers,  when 
you  sell  your  coal  lands,  are  taking  up  Blue-grass 
acres.  Don't  let  the  Easterner  swallow  you,  too. 
Go  home,  and,  while  you  are  getting  rich,  enrich 
your  citizenship,  and  you  and  Gray  help  land 
locked,  primitive  old  Kentucky  take  her  place 
among  the  modern  sisterhood  that  is  making  the 
nation.  To  use  a  phrase  of  your  own — get  busy, 
boys,  get  busy  after  I  am  gone." 

And  then  Colonel  Pendleton  laughed. 

"I  am  hardly  the  one  to  say  all  this,  or  rather 
I  am  just  the  one  because  I  am  a — failure." 

"Father." 

The  word  came  like  a  sob  from  Gray. 

"Oh,  yes,  I  am — but  I  have  never  lied  except 
for  others,  and  I  have  not  been  afraid." 

Again  his  face  went  toward  the  window. 

"Even  now,"  he  added  in  a  solemn  whisper  that 
was  all  to  himself,  "I  believe,  and  am  not  afraid." 

Presently  he  lifted  himself  on  one  elbow  and 
with  Gray's  assistance  got  to  a  sitting  posture. 
Then  he  pulled  a  paper  from  beneath  his  pillow. 

"I  want  to  tell  you  something,  Jason.  That 
was  all  true,  every  word  you  said  the  first  time 
Gray  and  I  saw  you  at  your  grandfather's  house, 
and  I  want  you  to  know  now  that  your  land  was 
bought  over  my  protest  and  without  my  knowl 
edge.  My  own  interest  in  the  general  purchase 
was  in  the  form  of  stock,  and  here  it  is." 

351 


THE  HEART  OF  THE  HILLS 

Jason's  heart  began  to  beat  violently. 

"Whatever  happens  to  me,  this  farm  will  have 
to  be  sold,  but  there  will  be  something  left  for 
Gray.  This  stock  is  in  Gray's  name,  and  it  is 
worth  now  just  about  what  would  have  been  a  fair 
price  for  your  land  five  years  after  it  was  bought. 
It  is  Gray's,  and  I  am  going  to  give  it  to  him." 
He  handed  the  paper  to  bewildered  Gray,  who 
looked  at  it  dazedly,  went  with  it  to  the  window, 
and  stood  there  looking  out — his  father  watching 
him  closely. 

"You  might  win  in  a  suit,  Jason,  I  know,  but  I 
also  know  that  you  could  never  collect  even 
damages." 

At  these  words  Gray  wheeled. 

"Then  this  belongs  to  you,  Jason." 

The  father  smiled  and  nodded  approval  and 
assent. 

That  night  there  was  a  fusillade  of  shots,  and 
Jason  and  Gray  rushed  out  with  a  Winchester 
in  hand  to  see  one  barn  in  flames  and  a  tall  figure 
with  a  firebrand  sneaking  toward  the  other.  Both 
fired  and  the  man  dropped,  rose  to  his  feet, 
limped  back  to  the  edge  of  the  woods,  and  they  let 
him  disappear.  But  all  the  night,  fighting  the  fire 
and  on  guard  against  another  attack,  Jason  was 
possessed  with  apprehension  and  fear — that  limp 
ing  figure  looked  like  Steve  Hawn.  So  at  the  first 
streak  of  dawn  he  started  for  his  mother's  home, 

352 


THE  HEART  OF  THE  HILLS 

and  when  that  early  he  saw  her  from  afar  standing 
on  the  porch  and  apparently  looking  for  him,  he 
went  toward  her  on  a  run.  She  looked  wild-eyed, 
white,  and  sleepless,  but  she  showed  no  signs  of 
tears. 

"Where's  Steve,  mammy?"  called  Jason  in  a 
panting  whisper,  and  when  she  nodded  back 
through  the  open  door  his  throat  eased  and  he 
gulped  his  relief. 

"Is  he  all  right?" 

She  looked  at  him  queerly,  tried  to  speak,  and 
began  to  tremble  so  violently  that  he  stepped 
quickly  past  her  and  stopped  on  the  threshold — 
shuddering.  A  human  shape  lay  hidden  under  a 
brilliantly  colored  quilt  on  his  mother's  bed,  and 
the  rigidity  of  death  had  moulded  its  every  outline. 

"I  reckon  you've  done  it  at  last,  Jasie,"  said  a 
dead,  mechanical  voice  behind  him. 

"Good  God,  mammy — it  must  have  been  Gray 


or  me." 


"One  of  you,  shore.  He  said  he  saw  you  shoot 
at  the  same  time,  and  only  one  of  you  hit  him. 
I  hope  hit  was  you." 

Jason  turned — horrified,  but  she  was  calm  and 
steady  now. 

"Hit  was  fitten  fer  you  to  be  the  one.  Babe 
never  killed  yo'  daddy,  Jasie — hit  was  Steve." 


353 


XLII 

4 

PENDLETON,  hearing  from  a  house- 
servant  of  the  death  of  Steve  Hawn,  hurried 
over  to  offer  his  help  and  sympathy,  and  Martha 
Hawn,  too  quick  for  Jason's  protest,  let  loose  the 
fact  that  the  responsibility  for  that  death  lay  be 
tween  the  two.  To  her  simple  faith  it  was  Jason's 
aim  that  the  intervening  hand  of  God  had  directed, 
but  she  did  not  know  what  the  law  of  this  land 
might  do  to  her  boy,  and  perhaps  her  motive  was 
to  shield  him  if  possible.  While  she  spoke,  one  of 
her  hands  was  hanging  loosely  at  her  side  and  the 
other  was  clenched  tightly  at  her  breast. 

"What  have  you  got  there,  mammy?"  said 
Jason  gently.  She  hesitated,  and  at  last  held  out 
her  hand — in  the  palm  lay  a  misshapen  bullet. 

"Steve  give  me  this — hit  was  the  one  that  got 
him,  he  said.  He  said  mebbe  you  boys  could  tell 
whichever  one's  gun  hit  come  from." 

Both  looked  at  the  piece  of  battered,  blood 
stained  lead  with  fascinated  horror  until  Gray, 
with  a  queer  little  smile,  took  it  from  her  hand,  for 
he  knew,  what  Jason  did  not,  that  the  night  before 
they  had  used  guns  of  a  different  calibre,  and  now 
his  heart  and  brain  worked  swiftly  and  to  a  better 
purpose  than  he  meant,  or  would  ever  know. 

354 


THE  HEART  OF  THE  HILLS 

"Come  on,  Jason,  you  and  I  will  settle  the  ques 
tion  right  now." 

And,  followed  by  mystified  Jason,  he  turned 
from  the  porch  and  started  across  the  yard. 
Standing  in  the  porch,  the  mother  saw  the  two 
youths  stop  at  the  fence,  saw  Gray  raise  his  right 
hand  high,  and  then  the  piece  of  lead  whizzed 
through  the  air  and  dropped  with  hardly  more 
than  the  splash  of  a  raindrop  in  the  centre  of  the 
pond.  The  mother  understood  and  she  gulped 
hard.  For  a  moment  the  two  talked  and  she  saw 
them  clasp  hands.  Then  Gray  turned  toward 
home  and  Jason  came  slowly  back  to  the  house. 
The  boy  said  nothing,  the  stony  calm  of  the  moth 
er's  face  was  unchanged — their  eyes  met  and  that 
was  all. 

An  hour  later,  John  Burnham  came  over,  told 
Jason  to  stay  with  his  mother,  and  went  forthwith 
to  town.  Within  a  few  hours  all  was  quickly, 
quietly  done,  and  that  night  Jason  started  with 
his  mother  and  the  body  of  Mavis's  father  back  to 
the  hills.  The  railroad  had  almost  reached  the 
county-seat  now,  and  at  the  end  of  it  old  Jason 
Hawn  and  Mavis  were  waiting  in  the  misty  dawn 
with  two  saddled  horses  and  a  spring  wagon.  The 
four  met  with  a  handshake,  a  grave  "how-dye,"  and 
no  further  speech.  And  thus  old  Jason  and  Mar 
tha  Hawn  jolted  silently  ahead,  and  little  Jason 
and  Mavis  followed  silently  behind.  Once  or 
twice  Jason  turned  to  look  at  her.  She  was  in 

355 


THE  HEART  OF  THE  HILLS 

black,  and  the  whiteness  of  her  face,  unstained  with 
tears,  lent  depth  and  darkness  to  her  eyes,  but  the 
eyes  were  never  turned  toward  him. 

When  they  entered  town  there  were  Hawns  in 
front  of  one  store  and  one  hotel  on  one  side  of  the 
street.  There  were  Honeycutts  in  front  of  one 
store  and  one  hotel  on  the  other  side,  and  Jason 
saw  the  lowering  face  of  little  Aaron,  and  towering 
in  one  group  the  huge  frame  of  Babe  Honeycutt. 
Silently  the  Hawns  fell  in  behind  on  horseback, 
and  on  foot,  and  gravely  the  Honeycutts  watched 
the  procession  move  through  the  town  and  up  the 
winding  road. 

The  pink-flecked  cups  of  the  laurel  were  dropping 
to  the  ground,  the  woods  were  starred  with  great 
white  clusters  of  rhododendron,  wood-thrushes, 
unseen,  poured  golden  rills  of  music  from  every  cool 
ravine,  air  and  sunlight  were  heavy  with  the  rich 
ness  of  June,  and  every  odor  was  a  whisper,  every 
sound  a  voice,  and  every  shaking  leaf  a  friendly 
little  beckoning  hand — all  giving  him  welcome 
home.  The  boy  began  to  choke  with  memories, 
but  Mavis  still  gave  no  sign.  Once  she  turned  her 
head  when  they  passed  her  little  log  school-house 
where  was  a  little  group  of  her  pupils  who  had  not 
known  they  were  to  have  a  holiday  that  day,  and 
whose  faces  turned  awe-stricken  when  they  saw  the 
reason,  and  sympathetic  when  Mavis  gave  them  a 
kindly  little  smile.  Up  the  creek  there  and  over  the 
sloping  green  plain  of  the  tree-tops  hung  a  cloud 

356 


THE  HEART  OF  THE  HILLS 

of  smoke  from  the  mines.  A  few  moments  more 
and  they  emerged  from  an  arched  opening  of  trees. 
The  lightning-rod  of  old  Jason's  house  gleamed 
high  ahead,  and  on  the  sunny  crest  of  a  bare  little 
knoll  above  it  were  visible  the  tiny  homes  built 
over  the  dead  in  the  graveyard  of  the  Hawns. 
And  up  there,  above  the  murmuring  sweep  of  the 
river,  and  with  many  of  his  kin  who  had  died  in  a 
similar  way,  they  laid  "slick  Steve"  Hawn.  The 
old  circuit  rider  preached  a  short  funeral  sermon, 
while  Mavis  and  her  mother  stood  together,  the 
woman  dry-eyed,  much  to  the  wonder  of  the  clan, 
the  girl  weeping  silently  at  last,  and  Jason  behind 
them — solemn,  watchful,  and  with  his  secret  work 
ing  painfully  in  his  heart.  He  had  forbade  his 
mother  to  tell  Mavis,  and  perhaps  he  would  never 
tell  her  himself;  for  it  might  be  best  for  her  never 
to  know  that  her  father  had  raised  the  little  mound 
under  which  his  father  slept  but  a  few  yards  away, 
and  that  in  turn  his  hands,  perhaps,  were  lowering 
Steve  Hawn  into  his  grave. 

From  the  graveyard  all  went  to  old  Jason's 
house,  for  the  old  man  insisted  that  Martha  Hawn 
must  make  her  home  with  him  until  young  Jason 
came  back  to  the  mountains  for  good.  Until  then 
Mavis,  too,  would  stay  there  with  Jason's  mother, 
and  with  deep  relief  the  boy  saw  that  the  two 
women  seemed  drawn  to  each  other  closer  than 
ever  now.  In  the  early  afternoon  old  Jason  limped 
ahead  of  him  to  the  barn  to  show  his  stock,  and 

357 


THE  HEART  OF  THE  HILLS 

for  the  first  time  Jason  noticed  how  feeble  his 
grandfather  was  and  how  he  had  aged  during  his 
last  sick  spell.  His  magnificent  old  shoulders  had 
drooped,  his  walk  was  shuffling,  and  even  the  leo 
nine  spirit  of  his  bushy  brows  and  deep-set  eyes 
seemed  to  have  lost  something  of  its  old  fire.  But 
that  old  fire  blazed  anew  when  the  old  man  told 
him  about  the  threats  and  insults  of  little  Aaron 
Honeycutt,  and  the  story  of  Mavis  and  Gray. 

"Mavis  in  thar,"  he  rumbled,  "stood  up  fer 
him  agin  me — agin  me.  She  'lowed  thar  wasn't  a 
Hawn  fitten  to  be  kinfolks  o'  his  even  by  marriage, 
less'n  'twas  you." 

"Me?" 

"An  she  told  me — me — to  mind  my  own  busi 
ness.  Is  that  boy  Gray  comin'  back  hyeh?" 

"Yes,  sir,  if  his  father  gets  well,  and  maybe 
he'll  come  anyhow." 

"Well,  that  gal  in  thar  is  plum'  foolish  about 
him,  but  I'm  goin'  to  let  you  take  keer  o'  all  that 
now." 

Jason  answered  nothing,  for  the  memory  of 
Gray's  worshipping  face,  when  he  went  down  the 
walk  with  Marjorie  at  Gray's  own  home,  came 
suddenly  back  to  him,  and  the  fact  that  Mavis 
was  yet  in  love  with  Gray  began  to  lie  with  sudden 
heaviness  on  his  mind  and  not  lightly  on  his  heart. 

"An'  as  fer  little  Aaron  Honeycutt " 

Over  the  barn-yard  gate  loomed  just  then  the 
huge  shoulders  of  Babe  Honeycutt  coming  from 

358 


THE  HEART  OF  THE  HILLS 

the  house  where  he  had  gone  to  see  his  sister 
Martha.  Jason  heard  the  shuffling  of  big  feet  and 
he  turned  to  see  Babe  coming  toward  him  fear 
lessly,  his  good-natured  face  in  a  wide  smile  and 
his  hand  outstretched.  Old  Jason  peered  through 
his  spectacles  with  some  surprise,  and  then  grunted 
with  much  satisfaction  when  they  shook  hands. 

"Well,  Jason,  I'm  glad  you  air  beginnin'  to 
show  some  signs  o'  good  sense.  This  feud  busi 
ness  has  got  to  stop — an'  now  that  you  two  air 
shakin'  hands,  hit  all  lays  betwixt  you  and  little 
Aaron." 

Babe  colored  and  hesitated. 

"That's  jus'  whut  I  wanted  to  say  to  Jason 
hyeh.  Aaron's  drinkin'  a  good  deal  now.  I  hears 
as  how  he's  a-threatenin'  some,  but  ef  Jason  kind 
o'  keeps  outen  his  way  an'  they  git  together  when 
he's  sober,  hit'll  be  easy." 

"Yes,"  said  old  Jason,  grimly,  "but  I  reckon 
you  Honeycutts  had  better  keep  Aaron  outen  his 
way  a  leetle,  too." 

"I'm  a-doin'  all  I  can,"  said  Babe  earnestly,  and 
he  slouched  away. 

"Got  yo'  gun,  Jason?" 

"No." 

"Well,  you  kin  have  mine  till  you  git  away 
again.  I  want  all  this  feud  business  stopped,  but 
I  hain't  goin'  to  have  you  shot  down  like  a  turkey 
at  Christmas  by  a  fool  boy  who  won't  hardly  know 
whut  he's  doin'." 

359 


THE  HEART  OF  THE  HILLS 

Jason  started  for  the  house,  but  the  old  man 
stayed  at  the  stable  to  give  directions  to  a  neigh 
bor  who  had  come  to  feed  his  stock.  It  sickened 
the  boy  to  think  that  he  must  perhaps  be  drawn 
into  the  feud  again,  but  he  would  not  be  foolish 
enough  not  to  take  all  precaution  against  young 
Aaron.  At  the  yard  fence  he  stopped,  seeing 
Mavis  under  an  apple-tree  with  one  hand  clutch 
ing  a  low  bough  and  her  tense  face  lifted  to  the 
west.  He  could  see  that  the  hand  was  clenched 
tightly,  for  even  the  naked  forearm  was  taut  as  a 
bowstring.  The  sun  was  going  down  in  the  little 
gap,  above  it  already  one  pale  star  was  swung, 
and  upon  it  her  eyes  seemed  to  be  fixed.  She 
heard  his  step  and  he  knew  it,  for  he  saw  her  face 
flush,  but  without  looking  around  she  turned  into 
the  house.  That  night  she  seemed  to  avoid  the 
chance  that  he  might  speak  to  her  alone,  and 
the  boy  found  himself  watching  her  covertly  and 
closely,  for  he  recalled  what  Gray  had  said  about 
her.  Indeed,  some  change  had  taken  place  that 
was  subtle  and  extraordinary.  He  saw  his  mother 
deferring  to  her — leaning  on  her  unconsciously. 
And  old  Jason,  to  the  boy's  amazement,  was  less 
imperious  when  she  was  around,  moderated  his 
sweeping  judgments,  looked  to  her  from  under  his 
heavy  brows,  apparently  for  approval  or  to  see 
that  at  least  he  gave  no  offence — deferred  to  her 
more  than  to  any  man  or  woman  within  the  boy's 
memory.  And  Jason  himself  felt  the  emanation 

360 


THE  HEART  OF  THE  HILLS 

from  her  of  some  new  power  that  was  beginning  to 
chain  his  thoughts  to  her.  All  that  night  Mavis 
was  on  his  mind,  and  when  he  woke  next  morning 
it  was  Mavis,  Mavis  still.  She  was  clear-eyed, 
calm,  reserved  when  she  told  him  good-by,  and 
once  only  she  smiled.  Old  Jason  had  brought  out 
one  of  his  huge  pistols,  but  Mavis  took  it  from  his 
unresisting  hands  and  Jason  rode  away  unarmed. 
It  was  just  as  well,  for  as  his  train  started,  a  horse 
and  a  wild  youth  came  plunging  down  the  river- 
bank,  splashed  across,  and  with  a  yell  charged  up 
to  the  station.  Through  the  car  window  Jason 
saw  that  it  was  little  Aaron,  flushed  of  face  and 
with  a  pistol  in  his  hand,  looking  for  him.  A  sud 
den  storm  of  old  instincts  burst  suddenly  within 
him,  and  had  he  been  armed  he  would  have  swung 
from  the  train  and  settled  accounts  then  and  there. 
As  it  was,  he  sat  still  and  was  borne  away  shaken 
with  rage  from  head  to  foot. 


XLIII 

/COMMENCEMENT  DAY  was  over.  Jason 
^^  Hawn  had  made  his  last  speech  in  college,  and 
his  theme  was  "Kentucky."  In  all  seriousness 
and  innocence  he  had  lashed  the  commonwealth 
for  lawlessness  from  mountain-top  to  river-brim, 
and  his  own  hills  he  had  flayed  mercilessly.  In  all 
seriousness  and  innocence,  when  he  was  packing 
his  bag  three  hours  later  in  "Heaven,"  he  placed 
his  big  pistol  on  top  of  his  clothes  so  that  when  the 
lid  was  raised,  the  butt  of  it  would  be  within  an 
inch  of  his  right  hand.  On  his  way  home  he  might 
meet  little  Aaron  on  the  train,  and  he  did  not  pro 
pose  to  be  at  Aaron's  mercy  again. 

While  the  band  played,  ushers  with  *  canes 
wrapped  with  red,  white,  and  blue  ribbons  had 
carried  him  up  notes  of  congratulation,  and  among 
them  was  a  card  from  Marjorie  and  a  bouquet  from 
her  own  garden.  John  Burnham's  eyes  sought  his 
with  pride  and  affection.  The  old  president,  hand 
ing  him  his  diploma,  said  words  that  covered  him 
with  happy  confusion  and  brought  a  cheer  from 
his  fellow-students.  When  he  descended  from  the 
platform,  Gray  grasped  his  hand,  and  Marjorie 
with  lips  and  eyes  gave  him  ingenuous  congratula- 

362 


THE  HEART  OF  THE  HILLS 

tions,  as  though  the  things  that  were  between  them 
had  never  been. 

An  hour  later  he  drove  with  John  Burnham 
through  soldiers  in  the  streets  and  past  the  Gat- 
ling-gun  out  into  the  country,  and  was  deposited 
at  the  mouth  of  the  lane.     For  the  last  time  he  went 
to  the  little  cottage  that  had  been  his  mother's 
home  and  walked  slowly  around  garden  and  barn, 
taking  farewell  of  everything  except  memories  that 
he  could  never  lose.     Across  the  fields  he  went 
once  more  to  Colonel  Pendleton's,  and  there  he 
found  Gray  radiant,  for  his  father  was  better,  and 
the  doctor,  who  was  just  leaving,  said  that  he 
might  yet  get  well.    And  there  was  little  danger 
now  from  the  night  riders,  for  the  county  judge 
had    arranged    a    system   of  signals    by   bonfires 
through  all  the  country  around  the  town.     He  had 
watchers  on  top  of  the  court-house,  soldiers  always 
ready,  and  motor-cars  waiting  below  to  take  them 
to  any  place  of  disturbance  if  a  bonfire  blazed. 
So  Gray  said  it  was  not  good-by  for  them  for 
long,  for  when  his  father  was  well  enough  he  was 
coming  back  to  the  hills.     Again  the  old  colonel 
wished  Jason  well  and  patted  him  on   the   arm 
affectionately  when  they  shook  hands,  and  then 
Jason  started  for  the  twin  house  on  the  hill  across 
the   turnpike   to   tell   Marjorie   and   her   mother 
good-by. 

An  hour  later  Gray  found  Marjorie  seated  on  a 
grape-vine  bench  under  honeysuckles  in  her  moth- 

363 


THE  HEART  OF  THE.  HILLS 

er's  old-fashioned  garden,  among  flowers  and  bees. 
Jason  had  just  told  her  good-by.  For  the  last 
time  he  had  felt  the  clasp  of  her  hand,  had  seen 
the  tears  in  her  eyes,  and  now  he  was  going  for  the 
last  time  through  the  fragrant  fields — his  face  set 
finally  for  the  hills. 

"Father  is  better,  the  county  judge  has  waked 
up,  and  there  is  no  more  danger  from  the  night 
riders,  and  so  I  am  going  back  to  the  mountains 
now  myself." 

"Jason  has  just  gone." 

"I  know." 

"Back  to  Ma  vis?" 

"I  don't  know." 

Marjorie  smiled  with  faint  mischief  and  grew 
serious. 

"I  wonder  if  you  have  had  the  same  experience, 
Gray,  that  I've  had  with  Mavis  and  Jason.  There 
was  never  a  time  that  I  did  not  feel  in  both  a  mys 
terious  something  that  always  baffled  me — a  bar 
rier  that  I  couldn't  pass,  and  knew  I  never  could 
pass.  I've  felt  it  with  Mavis,  even  when  we  were 
together  in  my  own  room  late  at  night,  talking 
our  hearts  to  each  other." 

"I  know — I've  felt  the  same  thing  in  Jason 
always." 

"What  is  it?" 

"I've  heard  John  Burnham  say  it's  a  reserve,  a 
reticence  that  all  primitive  people  have,  especially 
mountaineers;  a  sort  of  Indian-like  stoicism,  but 

364 


THE  HEART  OF  THE  HILLS 

less  than  the  Indian's  because  the  influences  that 
produce  it — isolation,  loneliness,  companionship 
with  primitive  wilds — have  been  a  shorter  while  at 
work." 

"That's  what  attracted  me,"  said  Marjorie 
frankly,  "and  I  couldn't  help  always  trying  to 
break  it  down — but  I  never  did.  Was — was  that 
what  attracted  you?"  she  asked  naively. 

"I  don't  know— but  I  felt  it." 

"And  did  you  try  to  break  it  down?" 

"No;  it  broke  me  down." 

"Ah!"  Marjorie  looked  very  thoughtful  for  a 
moment.  They  were  getting  perilously  near  the 
old  theme  now,  and  Gray  was  getting  grim  and 
Marjorie  petulant. 

And  then  suddenly: 

"Gray,  did  you  ever  ask  Mavis  to  marry  you?" 

Gray  reddened  furiously  and  turned  his  face 
away. 

"Yes,"  he  said  firmly.  When  he  looked  around 
again  a  hostile  right  shoulder  was  pointing  at  him, 
and  over  the  other  shoulder  the  girl  was  gazing  at 
— he  knew  not  what. 

"Marjorie,  you  oughtn't  to  have  asked  me  that. 
I  can't  explain  very  well.  I — "  He  stumbled  and 
stopped,  for  the  girl  had  turned  astonished  eyes 
upon  him. 

"Explain  what?"  she  asked  with  demure  won 
der.  "It's  all  right.  I  came  near  asking  Jason 
to  marry  me." 

365 


THE  HEART  OF  THE  HILLS 

"Marjorie!"  exploded  Gray. 

"Well!" 

A  negro  boy  burst  down  the  path,  panting: 

"Miss  Marjorie,  yo'  mother  says  you  an*  Mr, 
Gray  got  to  come  right  away/* 

Both  sprang  to  their  feet,  Gray  white  and  Mar- 
jorie's  mischievous  face  all  quick  remorse  and  ten 
derness.  Together  they  went  swiftly  up  the  walk 
and  out  to  the  stile  where  Gray's  horse  and  buggy 
were  hitched,  and  without  a  word  Marjorie,  bare 
headed  as  she  was,  climbed  into  the  buggy  and  they 
silently  sped  through  the  fields. 

Mrs.  Pendleton  met  them  at  the  door,  her  face 
white  and  her  hands  clenched  tightly  in  front  of 
her.  Speechless  with  distress,  she  motioned  them 
toward  the  door  of  the  sick-room,  and  when  the  old 
colonel  saw  them  coming  together,  his  tired  eyes 
showed  such  a  leap  of  happiness  that  Gray,  know 
ing  that  he  misunderstood,  had  not  the  heart  to 
undeceive  him,  and  he  looked  helplessly  to  Mar 
jorie.  But  that  extraordinary  young  woman's  own 
eyes  answered  the  glad  light  in  the  colonel's,  and 
taking  bewildered  Gray  by  the  hand  she  dropped 
with  him  on  one  knee  by  the  bedside. 

"Yes,  Uncle  Bob,"  Gray  heard  her  say  tenderly, 
"Gray's  not  going  back  to  the  mountains.  He's 
going  to  stay  here  with  us,  for  you  and  I  need  him." 

The  old  man  laid  a  hand  on  the  bright  head  of 
each,  his  eyes  lighting  with  the  happiness  of  his 
life's  wish  fulfilled,  and  chokingly  he  murmured : 

366 


THE  HEART  OF  THE  HILLS 

"My  children — Gray — Marjorie."  And  then 
his  eyes  rose  above  them  to  the  woman  who  had 
glided  in. 

"Mary— look  here." 

She  nodded,  smiling  tenderly,  and  Gray  felt 
Marjorie  rising  to  her  feet. 

"Call  us,  mother,"  she  whispered. 

Both  saw  her  kneel,  and  then  they  were  alone 
in  the  big  hallway,  and  Gray,  still  dazed,  was  look 
ing  into  Marjorie's  eyes. 

"Marjorie — Marjorie — do  you " 

Her  answer  was  a  rush  into  his  outstretched 
arms,  and,  locked  fast,  they  stood  heart  to  heart 
until  the  door  opened  behind  them.  Again  hand 
in  hand  they  kneeled  side  by  side  with  the  mother. 
The  colonel's  eyes  dimmed  slowly  with  the  com 
ing  darkness,  the  smiling,  pallid  lips  moved,  and 
both  leaned  close  to  hear. 

"Gray  —  Marjorie  —  Mary."  His  last  glance 
turned  from  them  to  her,  rested  there,  and  then 
came  the  last  whisper: 

"Our  children." 


367 


XLIV 

TASON  did  not  meet  young  Aaron  on  the  train, 
^  though  as  he  neared  the  county-seat  he  kept  a 
close  watch,  whenever  the  train  stopped  at  a  sta 
tion,  on  both  doors  of  his  car,  with  his  bag  on  the 
seat  in  front  of  him  unbuckled  and  unlocked.  At 
the  last  station  was  one  Honeycutt  lounging  about, 
but  plainly  evasive  of  him.  There  was  a  little 
group  of  Hawns  about  the  Hawn  store  and  hotel, 
and  more  Honeycutts  and  Hawns  on  the  other  side 
of  the  street  farther  down,  but  little  Aaron  did  not 
appear.  It  seemed,  as  he  learned  a  few  minutes 
later,  that  both  factions  were  in  town  for  the  meet 
ing  between  Aaron  and  him,  and  later  still  he 
learned  that  young  Honeycutt  loped  into  town 
after  Jason  had  started  up  the  river  and  was  much 
badgered  about  his  late  arrival.  At  the  forks  of 
the  road  Jason  turned  toward  the  mines,  for  he 
had  been  casually  told  by  Arch  Hawn  that  he 
would  find  his  mother  up  that  way.  The  old  cir 
cuit  rider's  wife  threw  her  arms  around  the  boy 
when  he  came  to  her  porch,  and  she  smiled  signifi 
cantly  when  she  told  him  that  his  mother  had 
walked  over  the  spur  that  morning  to  take  a  look 
at  her  old  home,  and  that  Mavis  had  gone  with  her. 

368 


THE  HEART  OF  THE  HILLS 

Jason  slowly  climbed  the  spur.  To  his  surprise 
he  saw  a  spiral  of  smoke  ascending  on  the  other 
side,  just  where  he  once  used  to  see  it,  but  he  did 
not  hurry,  for  it  might  be  coming  from  a  miner's 
cabin  that  had  been  built  near  the  old  place. 
On  top  of  the  spur,  however,  he  stopped — quite 
stunned.  That  smoke  was  coming  out  of  his 
mother's  old  chimney.  There  was  a  fence  around 
the  yard,  which  was  clear  of  weeds.  The  barn  was 
rebuilt,  there  was  a  cow  browsing  near  it,  and  near 
her  were  three  or  four  busily  rooting  pigs.  And 
stringing  beans  on  the  porch  were  his  mother — 
and  Mavis  Hawn.  Jason  shouted  his  bewilder 
ment,  and  the  two  women  lifted  their  eyes.  A 
high,  shrill,  glad  answer  came  from  his  mother, 
who  rose  to  meet  him,  but  Mavis  sat  where  she 
was  with  idle  hands. 

"Mammy!"  cried  Jason,  for  there  was  a  rich 
color  in  the  pallid  face  he  had  last  seen,  she  looked 
years  younger,  and  she  was  smiling.  It  was  all 
the  doing  of  Arch  Hawn — a  generous  impulse  or 
an  act  of  justice  long  deferred. 

"Why,  Jason!"  said  his  mother.  "Arch  is 
a-goin'  to  gimme  back  the  farm  fer  my  use  as  long 
as  I  live." 

And  Mavis  had  left  the  old  circuit  rider  and 
come  to  live  with  her.  The  girl  looked  quiet, 
placid,  content — only,  for  a  moment,  she  sank 
the  deep  lights  of  her  eyes  deep  into  his  and  the 
scrutiny  seemed  to  bring  her  peace,  for  she  drew 

369 


THE  HEART  OF  THE  HILLS 

a  long  breath  and  at  him  her  eyes  smiled.  There 
was  more  when  later  Mavis  had  strolled  down 
toward  the  barn  to  leave  the  two  alone. 

"Is  Mavis  goin*  to  live  with  you  all  the  time?" 

"Hit  looks  like  hit — she  brought  over  everything 
she  has." 

The  mother  smiled  suddenly,  looked  to  see  that 
the  girl  was  out  of  sight,  and  then  led  the  way  into 
the  house  and  up  into  the  attic,  where  she  reached 
behind  the  rafters. 

"Look  hyeh,"  she  said,  and  she  pulled  into  sight 
the  fishing-pole  and  the  old  bow  and  arrow  that 
Jason  had  given  Mavis  years  and  years  ago. 

"She  fetched  'em  over  when  I  wasn't  hyeh  an* 
hid  'em." 

Slyly  the  mother  watched  her  son's  face,  and 
though  Jason  said  nothing,  she  got  her  reward 
when  she  saw  him  color  faintly.  She  was  too  wise 
to  say  anything  more  herself,  nor  did  she  show  any 
consciousness  when  the  three  were  together  in  the 
porch,  nor  make  any  move  to  leave  them  alone. 
The  two  women  went  to  their  work  again,  and 
while  Mavis  asked  nothing,  the  mother  plied  Jason 
with  questions  about  Colonel  and  Mrs.  Pendleton 
and  Marjorie  and  Gray,  and  had  him  tell  about  his 
graduating  speech  and  Commencement  Day.  The 
girl  listened  eagerly,  though  all  the  time  her  eyes 
were  fixed  on  her  busy  fingers,  and  when  Jason 
told  that  Gray  would  most  likely  come  back  to  the 
hills,  now  that  his  father  would  get  well,  she  did 

370 


THE  HEART  OF  THE  HILLS 

not  even  lift  her  eyes  and  the  calm  of  her  face 
changed  not  at  all. 

A  little  later  Jason  started  back  over  to  the 
mines.  From  the  corner  of  the  yard  he  saw  the 
path  he  used  to  follow  when  he  was  digging  for 
his  big  seam  of  coal.  He  passed  his  trysting-place 
with  Mavis  on  top  of  the  spur,  walled  in  now,  as 
then,  with  laurel  and  rhododendron.  Again  he 
felt  the  same  pang  of  sympathy  when  he  saw  her 
own  cabin  on  the  other  side,  tenanted  now  by  negro 
miners.  Together  their  feet  had  beat  every  road, 
foot-path,  trail,  the  rocky  bed  of  every  little  creek 
that  interlaced  in  the  great  green  cup  of  the  hills 
about  him.  So  that  all  that  day  he  walked  with 
memories  and  Mavis  Hawn;  all  that  day  it  was 
good  to  think  that  his  mother's  home  was  hers, 
that  he  would  find  her  there  when  his  day's  work 
was  done,  and  that  she  would  be  lonesome  no 
more.  And  it  was  a  comfort  when  he  went  down 
the  spur  before  sunset  to  see  her  in  the  porch,  to 
get  her  smile  of  welcome  that  for  all  her  calm  sense 
of  power  seemed  shy,  to  see  her  moving  around  the 
house,  helping  his  mother  in  the  kitchen,  and,  after 
the  old  way,  waiting  on  him  at  the  table.  Jason 
slept  in  the  loft  of  his  childhood  that  night,  and 
again  he  pulled  out  the  old  bow  and  arrow,  han 
dling  them  gently  and  looking  at  them  long.  From 
his  bed  he  could  look  through  the  same  little  win 
dow  out  on  the  night.  The  trees  were  full-leafed 
and  as  still  as  though  sculptured  from  the  hill  of 

371 


THE  HEART  OF  THE  HILLS 

broken  shadows  and  flecks  of  moonlight  that  had 
paled  on  their  way  through  thin  mists  just  rising. 
High  from  the  tree-trunks  came  the  high  vibrant 
whir  of  toads,  the  calls  of  katydids  were  echoing 
through  forest  aisles,  and  from  the  ground  crickets 
chirped  modestly  upward.  The  peace  and  fresh 
ness  and  wildness  of  it  all!  Ah,  God,  it  was 
good  to  be  home  again! 


372 


XLV 

day  Jason  carried  over  to  Mavis  and  his 
mother  the  news  of  the  death  of  Colonel  Pen- 
dleton,  and  while  Mavis  was  shocked  she  asked  no 
question  about  Gray.  The  next  day  a  letter  ar 
rived  from  Gray  saying  he  would  not  come  back 
to  the  hills — and  again  Mavis  was  silent.  A  week 
later  Jason  was  made  assistant  superintendent  in 
Gray's  place  by  the  president  of  Morton  Sanders' 
coal  company,  and  this  Jason  knew  was  Gray's 
doing.  He  had  refused  to  accept  the  stock  Gray 
had  offered  him,  and  Gray  was  thus  doing  his  best 
for  him  in  another  way.  Moreover,  Jason  was  to 
be  quartered  in  Gray's  place  at  the  superintend 
ent's  little  cottage,  far  up  the  ravine  in  which  the 
boy  had  unearthed  the  great  seam  of  coal,  a  cot 
tage  that  had  been  built  under  Gray's  personal 
supervision  and  with  a  free  rein,  for  it  must  have  a 
visitor's  room  for  any  officer  or  stockholder  who 
might  come  that  way,  a  sitting-room  with  a  wood 
fireplace,  and  Colonel  Pendleton  had  meant,  moie- 
over,  that  his  son  should  have  all  the  comfort  pos 
sible.  Jason  dropped  on  the  little  veranda  under 
a  canopy  of  moon-flowers,  exultant  but  quite  over 
come.  How  glad  and  proud  his  mother  would  be 
— and  Mavis.  While  he  sat  there  Arch  Hawn  rode 

373 


THE  HEART  OP  THE  HILLS 

by,  his  face  lighted  up  with  a  humorous  knowing 
smile. 

"How  about  it?"  he  shouted. 

"D'you  have  anything  to  do  with  this?" 

"Oh,  just  a  leetle." 

"Well,  you  won't  be  sorry." 

"Course  not.  What'd  I  tell  ye,  son?  You  go 
in  now  an*  dig  it  out.  And  say,  Jason — "  He 
pulled  his  horse  in  and  spoke  seriously:  "Keep 
away  from  town  till  little  Aaron  gets  over  his 
spree.  You  don't  know  it,  but  that  boy  is  a  fine 
feller  when  he's  sober.  Don't  you  shoot  first  now. 
So  long." 

The  next  day  Jason  ran  upon  Babe  Honeycutt 
shambling  up  the  creek.  Babe  was  fearless  and 
cordial,  and  Jason  had  easily  guessed  why. 

"Babe,  my  mammy  told  you  something." 

The  giant  hesitated,  started  to  lie,  but  nodded 
assent. 

"You  haven't  told  anybody  else?" 

"Nary  a  livin'  soul." 

"Well,  don't." 

Babe  shuffled  on,  stopped,  called  Jason,  and 
came  back  close  enough  to  whisper: 

"I  had  all  I  could  do  yestiddy  to  keep  little 
Aaron  from  comin'  up  hyeh  to  the  mines  to  look 
for  ye." 

Then  he  shuffled  away.  Jason  began  to  get  an 
gry  now.  He  had  no  intention  of  shooting  first 
or  shooting  at  all  except  to  save  his  own  life,  but 

374 


THE  HEART  OF  THE  HILLS 

he  went  straightway  over  the  spur  to  get  his  pistol. 
Mavis  saw  him  buckling  it  on,  he  explained  why, 
and  the  girl  sadly  nodded  assent. 

Jason  flung  himself  into  his  work  now  with  pro 
digious  energy.  He  never  went  to  the  county-seat, 
was  never  seen  on  the  river  road  on  the  Honeycutt 
side  of  the  ancient  dead-line,  and  the  tale-bearers 
on  each  side  proceeded  to  get  busy  again.  The 
Hawns  heard  that  Jason  had  fled  from  little  Aaron 
the  morning  Jason  had  gone  back  for  his  Com 
mencement  in  the  Blue-grass.  The  Honeycutts 
heard  that  Aaron  had  been  afraid  to  meet  Jason 
when  he  returned  to  the  county-seat.  Old  Jason 
and  old  Aaron  were  each  cautioning  his  grandson 
to  put  an  end  to  the  folly,  and  each  was  warning 
his  business  representative  in  town  with  commer 
cial  annihilation  if  he  should  be  discovered  trying 
to  bring  on  the  feud  again.  On  the  first  county- 
court  day  Jason  had  to  go  to  court,  and  the  meeting 
came.  The  town  was  full  with  members  of  both 
factions,  armed  and  ready  for  trouble.  Jason  had 
ridden  ahead  of  his  grandfather  that  morning 
and  little  Aaron  had  ridden  ahead  of  his.  Jason 
reached  town  first,  and  there  was  a  stir  in  the 
Honeycutt  hotel  and  store.  Half  an  hour  later 
there  was  a  stir  among  the  Hawns,  for  little  Aaron 
rode  by.  A  few  minutes  later  Aaron  came  toward 
the  Hawn  store,  in  the  middle  of  the  street,  swag 
gering.  Jason  happened  at  that  moment  to  be 
crossing  the  same  street,  and  a  Hawn  shouted 
warning. 

375 


THE  HEART  OF  THE  HILLS 

Jason  looked  up  and  saw  Aaron  coming.  He 
stopped,  turned,  and  waited  until  Aaron  reached 
for  his  gun.  Then  his  own  flashed,  and  the  two 
reports  sounded  as  one.  One  black  lock  was 
clipped  from  Jason's  right  temple  a*nd  a  little  patch 
flew  from  the  left  shoulder  of  Aaron's  coat.  To 
Jason's  surprise  Aaron  lowered  his  weapon  and 
began  working  at  it  savagely  with  both  hands,  and 
while  Jason  waited,  Aaron  looked  up. 

"Shoot  ahead,"  he  said  sullenly;  "it's  a  new 
gun  and  it  won't  work." 

But  no  shot  came  and  Aaron  looked  up  again, 
mystified  and  glaring,  but  Jason  was  smiling  and 
walking  toward  him. 

"Aaron,  there  are  two  or  three  trifling  fellows 
on  our  side  who  hate  you  and  are  afraid  of  you. 
You  know  that,  don't  you?" 

"Yes." 

"Well,  the  same  thing  is  true  about  me  of  two 
or  three  men  on  your  side,  isn't  it?" 

"Yes." 

"They've  been  carrying  tales  from  one  side  to 
the  other.  I've  never  said  anything  against  you." 

Aaron,  genuinely  disbelieving,  stared  question- 
ingly  for  a  moment — and  believed. 

"I've  never  said  anything  against  you,  either." 

"I  believe  you.  Well,  do  you  see  any  reason 
why  we  should  be  shooting  each  other  down  to 
oblige  a  few  cowards  ? " 

"No,  by  God,  I  don't." 

"Well,  I  don't  want  to  die  and  I  don't  believe 

376 


THE  HEART  OF  THE  HILLS 

you  do.  There  are  a  lot  of  things  I  want  to  do 
and  a  lot  that  you  want  to  do.  We  want  to  help 
our  own  people  and  our  own  mountains  all  we  can, 
and  the  best  thing  we  can  do  for  them  and  for  our 
selves  is  to  stop  this  feud." 

"It's  the  God's  truth,"  said  Aaron  solemnly,  but 
looking  still  a  little  incredulous. 

"You  and  I  can  do  it." 

"You  bet  we  can!" 

"Let's  do  it.     Shake  hands." 

And  thus,  while  the  amazed  factions  looked  on, 
the  two  modern  young  mountaineers,  eye  to  eye 
and  hand  gripping  hand,  pledged  death  to  the 
long  warfare  between  their  clans  and  a  deathless 
friendship  between  themselves.  And  a  little  later 
a  group  of  lounging  Hawns  and  Honeycutts  in  the 
porches  of  the  two  ancient  hostile  hotels  saw  the 
two  riding  out  of  town  side  by  side,  unarmed,  and 
on  their  way  to  bring  old  Aaron  and  old  Jason  to 
gether  and  make  peace  between  them. 

The  coincidence  was  curious,  but  old  Aaron, 
who  had  started  for  town,  met  old  Jason  coming 
out  of  a  ravine  only  a  mile  from  town,  for  old  Jason, 
with  a  sudden  twitch  of  memory,  had  turned  to  go 
up  a  hollow  where  lived  a  Hawn  he  wanted  to  see 
and  was  coming  back  to  the  main  road  again. 
Both  were  dim-sighted,  both  wore  spectacles,  both 
of  their  old  nags  were  going  at  a  walk,  making  no 
noise  in  the  deep  sand,  and  only  when  both  horses 
stopped  did  either  ancient  peer  forward  and  see 
the  other. 


THE  HEART  OF  THE  HILLS 

"Well,  by  God/'  quavered  both  in  the  same 
voice.  And  each  then  forgot  his  mission  of  peace, 
and  began  to  climb,  grunting,  from  his  horse, 
each  hitching  it  to  the  fence. 

"This  is  the  fust  time  in  five  year,  Jason  Hawn, 
you  an'  me  come  together,  an'  you  know  whut  I 
swore  I'd  do,"  cackled  old  Aaron 

Old  Jason's  voice  was  still  deep. 

"Well,  you've  got  yo'  chance  now,  you  old  bag 
o'  bones!  Them  two  boys  o'  ours  air  all  right 
but  thar  hain't  no  manhood  left  in  this  hyeh  war 
o'  ours.  Hit's  just  a  question  of  which  hired  feller 
gits  the  man  who  hired  the  other  feller.  We'll 
fight  the  ole  way.  You  hain't  got  a  knife — now?" 

"Damn  yo'  hide!"  cried  old  Aaron.  "Do  you 
reckon  I  need  hit  agin  you?"  He  reached  in  his 
pocket  and  tossed  a  curved-bladed  weapon  into 
the  bushes. 

"Well,"  mumbled  old  Jason,  "I  can  whoop  you, 
fist  an'  skull,  right  now,  just  as  I  allers  have 
done." 

Both  were  stumbling  back  into  the  road  now. 

"You  air  just  as  big  a  liar  as  ever,  Jase,  an'  I'm 
goin'  to  prove  it." 

And  then  the  two  tottering  old  giants  squared 
off,  their  big,  knotted,  heavily  veined  fists  revolv 
ing  around  each  other  in  the  old-fashioned  coun 
try  way.  Old  Jason  first  struck  the  air,  was 
wheeled  around  by  the  force  of  his  own  blow,  and 
got  old  Aaron's  fist  in  the  middle  of  the  back. 
Again  the  Hawn  struck  blindly  as  he  turned,  and 

378 


THE  HEART  OF  THE  HILLS 

from  old  Aaron's  grunt  he  knew  he  had  got  him 
in  the  stomach.  Then  he  felt  a  fist  in  his  own 
stomach,  and  old  Aaron  cackled  triumphantly 
when  he  heard  the  same  tell-tale  grunt. 

"Oh,  yes,  dad-blast  ye!     Come  on  agin,  son." 

They  clinched,  and  as  they  broke  away  a  blind 
sweep  from  old  Jason  knocked  Aaron's  brass- 
rimmed  spectacles  from  his  nose. 

They  fell  far  apart,  and  when  old  Jason  ad 
vanced  again,  peering  forward,  he  saw  his  enemy 
silently  pawing  the  air  with  his  back  toward  him, 
and  he  kicked  him. 

"Here  I  am,  you  ole  idgit!" 

"Stop!"  shouted  old  Aaron,  "I've  lost  my 
specs." 

"Whar?" 

"I  don't  know,"  and  as  he  dropped  to  his  knees 
old  Jason  bent  too  to  help  him  find  his  missing 
eyes.  Then  they  went  at  it  again — and  the  same 
cry  came  presently  from  old  Jason. 

"Stop,  I've  lost  mine!" 

And  both  being  out  of  breath  sat  heavily  down 
in  the  sand,  old  Jason  feeling  blindly  with  his 
hands  and  old  Aaron  peering  about  him  as  far  as 
he  could  see.  And  thus  young  Jason  and  young 
Aaron  found  them,  and  were  utterly  mystified 
until  the  old  men  rose  creakily  and  got  ready  for 
battle  again — when  both  spurred  forward  with  a 
shout  of  joy,  and  threw  themselves  from  their 
horses. 

379 


THE  HEART  OF  THE  HILLS 

"Go  for  him,  grandpap!"  shouted  each,  and 
the  two  old  men  turned. 

"Uncle  Aaron,"  shouted  Jason,  "I  bet  you  can 
lick  him!" 

"He  can't  do  it,  Uncle  Jason!"  shouted  Aaron. 

Each  old  man  peered  at  his  own  grandson,  dum- 
founded.  Neither  was  armed,  both  were  helpless 
with  laughter,  and  each  was  urging  on  the  oldest 
enemy  of  his  clan  against  his  own  grandfather. 
The  face  of  each  old  man  angered,  and  then  both 
began  to  grin  sheepishly;  for  both  were  too  keen 
witted  not  to  know  immediately  that  what  both 
really  wished  for  had  come  to  pass. 

"Aaron,"  said  old  Jason,  "the  boys  have 
ketched  us.  I  reckon  we  better  call  this  thing  a 
draw." 

"All  right,"  piped  old  Aaron,  "we're  a  couple  o' 
ole  fools  anyhow." 

So  they  shook  hands.  Each  grandson  helped 
the  other's  grandfather  laughingly  on  his  horse, 
and  the  four  rode  back  toward  town.  And  thus 
old  Jason  and  old  Aaron,  side  by  side  in  front,  and 
young  Jason  and  young  Aaron,  side  by  side  be 
hind,  appeared  to  the  astonished  eyes  of  Hawns 
and  Honeycutts  on  the  main  street  of  the  county- 
seat.  Before  the  Honeycutt  store  they  stopped, 
and  old  Aaron  called  his  henchman  into  the  middle 
of  the  street  and  spoke  vigorous  words  that  all  the 
Honeycutts  could  hear.  Then  they  rode  to  the 
Hawn  store,  and  old  Jason  called  his  henchman 

380 


THE  HEART  OF  THE  HILLS 

out  and  spoke  like  words  that  all  the  Hawns  could 
hear.  And  each  old  man  ended  his  discourse  with 
a  profane  dictum  that  sounded  like  the  vicious 
snap  of  a  black-snake  whip. 

"By  God,  hit's  got  to  stop." 

Then  turned  the  four  again  and  rode  homeward, 
and  for  the  first  time  in  their  lives  old  Aaron  and 
young  Aaron  darkened  the  door  of  old  Jason's 
house,  and  in  there  the  jug  went  round  the  four 
of  them,  and  between  the  best  of  the  old  order  and 
the  best  of  the  new,  final  peace  was  cemented  at 
last. 

Jason  reached  the  mines  a  little  before  dusk,  and 
the  old  circuit  rider  lifted  his  eyes  heavenward  that 
his  long  prayer  had  been  answered  at  last  and  the 
old  woman  rocked  silently  back  and  forth — her 
old  eyes  dimmed  with  tears. 

Then  Jason  hurried  over  the  hill  and  took  to  his 
mother  a  peace  she  had  not  known  even  in  her 
childhood,  and  a  joy  that  she  never  dreamed  would 
be  hers  while  she  lived — that  her  boy  was  safe  from 
blood-oaths,  a  life  of  watchful  terror,  and  constant 
fear  of  violent  death.  In  Mavis's  eyes  was  deep 
content  when  the  moon  rose  on  the  three  that 
night.  Jason  stayed  a  while  after  his  mother  was 
gone  within,  and,  as  they  sat  silently  together,  he 
suddenly  took  one  of  her  hands  in  both  his  own 
and  kissed  it,  and  then  he  was  gone.  She  watched 
him,  and  when  his  form  was  lost  in  the  shadows  of 
the  trees  she  lifted  that  hand  to  her  own  lips. 

381 


XLVI 

TTTINTER  came  and  passed  swiftly.  Through 
out  it  Jason  was  on  the  night  shift,  and  day 
for  him  was  turned  into  night.  Throughout  it 
Mavis  taught  her  school,  and  she  reached  home 
just  about  the  time  Jason  was  going  to  work,  for 
school  hours  are  long  in  the  hills.  Meanwhile,  the 
railroad  crept  through  the  county-seat  up  the 
river,  and  the  branch  line  up  the  Hawn  creek  to 
the  mines  was  ready  for  it.  And  just  before  the 
junction  was  made,  there  was  an  event  up  that 
creek  in  which  Mavis  shared  proudly,  for  the  work 
in  great  part  was  Jason's  own.  Throughout  the 
winter,  coke-ovens  had  sprung  up  like  great  bee 
hives  along  each  side  of  the  creek,  and  the  bat 
tery  of  them  was  ready  for  firing.  Into  each,  shav 
ings  and  kindlings  were  first  thrust  and  then  big 
sticks  of  wood.  Jason  tied  packing  to  the  end  of 
a  pole,  saturated  it  with  kerosene,  lighted  it,  and 
handed  it  to  Mavis.  Along  the  batteries  men 
with  similar  poles  waited  for  her.  The  end  of  the 
pole  was  a  woolly  ball  of  oily  flames,  writhing  like 
little  snakes  when  she  thrust  it  into  the  first  oven, 
and  they  leaped  greedily  at  the  waiting  feast  and 
started  a  tiny  gluttonous  roar  within.  With  a  yell 

382 


THE  HEART  OF  THE  HILLS 

a  grinning  darky  flourished  another  mass  of  little 
flames  at  the  next  oven,  and  down  the  line  the 
balls  of  fire  flashed  in  the  dusk  and  disappeared,  and 
Mavis  and  Jason  and  his  mother  stood  back  and 
waited.  Along  came  eager  men  throwing  wood 
and  coal  into  the  hungry  maws  above  them.  Lit 
tle  black  clouds  began  to  belch  from  them  and 
from  the  earth  packed  around,  and  over  them 
arose  white  clouds  of  steam.  The  swirling  smoke 
swooped  down  the  sides  of  the  batteries  and  drove 
the  watching  three  farther  back.  Flames  burst 
angrily  from  the  oven  doors  and  leaped  like  yellow 
lightning  up  through  the  belching  smoke.  Behind 
them  was  the  odor  of  the  woods,  fresh  and  damp 
and  cool,  and  the  sound  of  the  little  creek  in  its 
noisy  way  over  rocks  and  stray  fallen  timbers. 
Down  from  the  mines  came  mules  with  their 
drivers,  their  harness  rattling  as  they  trotted  past, 
and  from  the  houses  poured  women  and  children 
to  see  the  first  flaming  signs  of  a  great  industry. 
And  good  cheer  was  in  the  air  like  wine,  for  times 
were  good,  and  work  and  promise  of  work  a-plenty. 
Exultant  Jason  felt  a  hand  on  his  shoulder,  and 
turned  to  find  the  big  superintendent  smiling  at 
him. 

"You  go  on  the  day  shift  after  this,"  he  said. 
"Go  to  bed  now." 

The  boy's  eyes  glistened,  for  he  had  been  work 
ing  for  forty-eight  hours,  and  with  Mavis  and  his 
mother  he  walked  up  the  hill.  At  the  cottage  he 

383 


THE  HEART  OF  THE  HILLS 

went  inside  and  came  out  with  a  paper  in  his  hand 
which  he  handed  to  Mavis  without  a  word.  Then 
he  went  back  and  with  his  clothes  on  fell  across  his 
bed. 

Mavis  walked  down  the  spur  with  her  step 
mother  home.  She  knew  what  the  paper  contained 
for  two  days  before  was  the  date  fixed  for  the 
wedding-day  of  Marjorie  and  Gray  Pendleton,  and 
Gray  had  written  Jason  and  Marjorie  had  written 
her,  begging  them  both  to  come.  By  the  light  of  a 
lamp  she  read  the  account,  fulsome  and  feminine, 
aloud :  the  line  of  carriages  and  motor-cars  sweep 
ing  from  the  pike  gate  between  two  rows  of  softly 
glowing,  gently  swinging  Japanese  lanterns,  up  to 
the  noble  old  Southern  home  gleaming  like  a  fairy 
palace  on  the  top  of  a  little  hill;  the  gay  gather 
ing  of  the  gentlefolk  of  the  State;  the  aisle  made 
through  them  by  two  silken  white  ribbons  and 
leading  to  the  rose-canopied  altar;  the  coming 
down  that  aisle  of  the  radiant  bride  with  her 
flowers,  and  her  bridesmaids  with  theirs;  the  eager 
waiting  of  the  young  bridegroom,  the  bending  of 
two  proud,  sunny  heads  close  together,  and  the 
God-sealed  union  of  their  hearts  and  lives.  And 
then  the  silent  coming  of  a  great  gleaming  motor 
car,  the  showers  of  rice,  the  showering  chorus  of 
gay  good  wishes  and  good-bys,  and  then  they 
shot  away  in  the  night  for  some  mysterious  bourne 
of  the  honeymoon.  And  behind  them  the  dance 
went  on  till  dawn.  The  paper  dropped  in  Mavis's 

384 


THE  HEART  OF  THE  HILLS 

lap,  and  Martha  Hawn  sighed  and  rose  to  get 
ready  for  bed. 

"My,  but  some  folks  is  lucky!" 

On  the  porch  Mavis  waited  up  awhile,  with  no 
envy  in  her  heart.  The  moon  was  soaring  over 
the  crest  of  the  Cumberland,  and  somewhere, 
doubtless,  Marjorie  and  Gray,  too,  had  their  eyes 
lifted  toward  it.  She  looked  toward  the  little  gap 
in  the  western  hills  where  Gray's  star  had  gone 
down. 

"I'm  so  glad  they're  happy,"  she  whispered. 

The  moon  darkened  just  then,  and  beyond  and 
over  the  dark  spur  flashed  a  new  light  in  the  sky, 
that  ran  up  the  mounting  clouds  like  climbing  roses 
of  flame.  The  girl  smiled  happily.  Under  it  tired 
Jason  was  asleep,  but  the  light  up  there  was  the 
work  of  his  hands  below,  and  it  hung  in  the  heavens 
like  a  pillar  of  fire. 


385 


XLVII 

CITTING  on  the  porch  next  morning,  Mavis  and 
^  Martha  Hawn  saw  Jason  come  striding  down 
the  spur. 

"I'm  taking  a  holiday  to-day,"  he  said,  and 
there  was  a  light  in  his  eyes  and  a  quizzical  smile 
on  his  face  that  puzzled  Mavis,  but  the  mother  was 
quick  to  understand.  It  was  Saturday,  a  holiday, 
too,  for  Mavis,  and  a  long  one,  for  her  school  had 
just  closed  that  her  children  might  work  in  the 
fields.  Without  a  word,  but  still  smiling  to  himself, 
Jason  went  out  on  the  back  porch,  got  a  hoe,  and 
disappeared  behind  the  garden  fence.  He  came 
back  presently  with  a  tin  can  in  his  hands  and  held 
it  out  to  Mavis. 

"Let's  go  fishing,"  he  said. 

While  Mavis  hesitated  the  mother,  with  an  in 
ward  chuckle,  went  within  and  emerged  with  the 
bow  and  arrow  and  an  old  fishing-pole. 

"Mebbe  you'll  need  'em,"  she  said  dryly. 

Mavis  turned  scarlet  and  Jason,  pretending  be 
wilderment,  laughed  happily. 

"That's  just  what  we  do  need,"  he  said,  with  no 
further  surprise,  no  question  as  to  how  those  old 
relics  of  their  childhood  happened  to  be  there.  His 

386 


THE  HEART  OF  THE  HILLS 

mother's  diplomacy  was  crude,  but  he  was  grateful 
for  it,  and  he  smiled  at  her  understandingly. 

So,  like  two  children  again,  they  set  off,  as  long 
ago,  over  the  spur,  down  the  branch,  across  the 
road  below  the  mines,  and  down  into  the  deep 
bowl,  filled  to  the  brim  with  bush  and  tree,  and  to 
where  the 'same  deep  pool  lay  in  deep  shadows 
asleep — Jason  striding  ahead  and  Mavis  his  obedi 
ent  shadow  once  more — only  this  time  Jason  would 
look  back  every  now  and  then  and  smile.  Nor  did 
he  drop  her  pole  on  the  ground  and  turn  ungal- 
lantly  to  his  bow  and  arrow,  but  unwound  the  line, 
baited  her  hook,  cast  it,  and  handed  her  the  pole. 
As  of  yore,  he  strung  his  bow,  which  was  a  ridicu 
lous  plaything  in  his  hands  now,  and  he  peered  as 
of  yore  into  every  sunlit  depth,  but  he  turned  every 
little  while  to  look  at  the  quiet  figure  on  the  bank, 
not  squatted  with  childish  abandon,  but  seated  as  a 
maiden  should  be,  with  her  skirts  drawn  decorously 
around  her  pretty  ankles.  And  all  the  while  she 
felt  him  looking,  and  her  face  turned  into  lovely 
rose,  though  her  shining  eyes  never  left  the  pool 
that  mirrored  her  below.  Only  her  squeal  was  the 
same  when,  as  of  yore,  she  flopped  a  glistening 
chub  on  the  bank,  and  another  and  another.  Nor 
did  he  tell  her  she  was  "skeerin'  the  big  uns"  and 
set  her  to  work  like  a  little  slave,  but  unhooked 
each  fish  and  put  on  another  worm.  And  only  was 
Jason  little  Jason  once  more  when  at  last  he  saw 
the  waving  outlines  of  an  unwary  bass  in  the 

387 


THE  HEART  OF  THE  HILLS 

depths  below.  Again  Mavis  saw  him  crouch,  saw 
again  the  arrow  drawn  to  his  actually  paling  cheek, 
heard  again  the  rushing  hiss  through  the  air  and 
the  burning  hiss  into  the  water,  and  saw  a  bass 
leap  from  the  convulsed  surface.  Only  this  time 
there  was  no  headless  arrow  left  afloat,  for,  with  a 
boyish  yell,  Jason  dragged  his  squirming  captive 
in.  This  time  Jason  gathered  the  twigs  and  built 
the  fire  and  helped  to  clean  the  fish.  And  when  all 
was  ready,  who  should  step  forth  with  a  loud  laugh 
of  triumph  from  the  bushes  but  the  same  giant — 
Babe  Honeycutt! 

"I  seed  you  two  comin'  down  hyeh,"  he  shouted. 
"Hit  reminded  me  o'  ole  times.  I  been  settin' 
thar  in  the  bushes  an'  the  smell  o'  them  fish  might' 
nigh  drove  me  crazy.  An'  this  time,  by  the 
jumpin'  Jehosiphat,  I'm  a-goin'  to  have  my  share." 

Babe  did  take  his  share,  and  over  his  pipe  grew 
reminiscent. 

"I'm  mighty  glad  you  didn't  git  me  that  day, 
Jason,"  he  said,  with  another  laugh,  "an'  I  reckon 
you  air  too  now  that " 

He  stopped  in  confusion,  for  Jason  had  darted 
him  a  warning  glance.  So  confused  was  he,  indeed, 
that  he  began  to  feel  suddenly  very  much  in  the 
way,  and  he  rose  quickly,  and  with  a  knowing  look 
from  one  to  the  other  melted  with  a  loud  laugh  into 
the  bushes  again 

"Now,  wasn't  that  curious?"  said  Jason,  and 
Mavis  nodded  silently. 

388 


THE  HEART  OF  THE  HILLS 

All  the  time  they  had  been  drifting  along  the 
backward  current  of  memories,  and  perhaps  it  was 
that  current  that  bore  them  unconsciously  along 
when  th  x>se,  for  unconsciously  Jason  went  on 
toward  .iver,  until  once  more  they  stood  on  the 
little  ki,  whence  they  had  first  seen  Gray  and 
Marjorie  ride  through  the  arched  opening  of  the 
trees.  Hitherto,  speech  had  been  as  sparse  be 
tween  them  as  it  had  been  that  long-ago  day,  but 
here  they  looked  suddenly  into  each  other's  eyes, 
and  each  knew  the  other's  thought. 

"Are  you  sorry,  Mavis?" 

She  flushed  a  little. 

"Not  now";  and  then  shyly,  "are  you?" 

"Not  now,"  repeated  Jason. 

Back  they  went  again,  lapsing  once  more  into 
silence,  until  they  came  again  to  the  point  where 
they  had  started  to  part  that  day,  and  Mavis's  fear 
had  led  him  to  take  her  down  the  dark  ravine  to 
her  home.  The  spirals  of  smoke  were  even  rising 
on  either  side  of  the  spur  from  Jason's  cottage  and 
his  mother's  home,  and  both  high  above  were  melt 
ing  into  each  other  and  into  the  drowsy  haze  that 
veiled  the  face  of  the  mountain.  Jason  turned 
quickly,  and  the  subdued  fire  in  his  eyes  made  the 
girl's  face  burn  and  her  eyes  droop. 

"Mavis,"  he  said  huskily,  "do  you  remember 
what  I  said  that  day  right  here?" 

And  then  suddenly  the  woman  became  the  brave. 

"Yes,  Jasie,"  she  said,  meeting  his  eyes  un- 
389 


THE  HEART  OF  THE  HILLS 

flinchingly  now  and  with  a  throb  of  desire  to  end 
his  doubt  and  suffering  quickly: 

"And  I  remember  what  we  both  did — once." 

She  looked  down  toward  the  old  circuit  rider's 
house  at  the  forks  of  the  road,  and  Jason's  hand  and 
lip  trembled  and  his  face  was  transfigured  with  un 
believable  happiness. 

"Why,  Mavis — I  thought  you — Gray — Mavis, 
will  you,  will  you?" 

"Poor  Jasie,"  she  said,  and  almost  as  a  mother 
to  a  child  who  had  long  suffered  she  gently  put 
both  arms  around  his  neck,  and,  as  his  arms  crushed 
her  to  him,  lifted  her  mouth  to  meet  his. 

Two  hours  it  took  Jason  to  go  to  town  and  back, 
galloping  all  the  way.  And  then  at  sunset  they 
walked  together  through  the  old  circuit  rider's  gate 
and  to  the  porch,  and  stood  before  the  old  man 
hand  in  hand. 

"Me  an'  Mavis  hyeh  want  to  git  married,"  said 
Jason,  with  a  jesting  smile,  and  the  old  man's  mem 
ory  was  as  quick  as  his  humor. 

"Have  ye  got  a  license?"  he  asked,  with  a 
serious  pursing  of  his  lips.  "You  got  to  have  a 
license,  an'  hit  costs  two  dollars  an'  you  got  to  be 


a  man." 


Jason  smilingly  pulled  a  paper  from  his  pocket, 
and  Mavis  interrupted: 
"He's  my  man." 

"Well,  he  will  be  in  a  minute — come  in  hyeh." 
390 


THE  HEART  OF  THE  HILLS 

The  old  circuit  rider's  wife  met  them  at  the  door 
and  hugged  them  both,  and  when  they  came  out  on 
the  porch  again,  there  was  Jason's  mother  hurrying 
down  the  spur  and  calling  to  them  with  a  half- 
tearful  laugh  of  triumph. 

"I  knowed  it — oh,  I  knowed  it." 

The  news  spread  swiftly.  Within  half  an  hour 
the  big  superintendent  was  tumbling  his  things 
from  the  cottage  into  the  road,  for  his  own  family 
was  coming,  he  explained  to  Jason's  mother,  and 
he  needed  a  larger  house  anyway.  And  so  Babe 
Honeycutt  swung  twice  down  the  spur  on  the 
other  side  and  up  again  with  Mavis's  worldly  goods 
on  his  great  shoulders,  while  inside  the  cottage 
Martha  Hawn  and  the  old  circuit  rider's  wife  were 
as  joyously  busy  as  bees.  On  his  last  trip  Mavis 
and  Jason  followed,  and  on  top  of  the  spur  Babe 
stopped,  cocked  his  ear,  and  listened.  Coming  on  a 
slow  breeze  up  the  ravine  from  the  river  far  below 
was  the  long  mellow  blast  of  a  horn. 

"'I  God,"  laughed  Babe  triumphantly,  "ole 
Jason's  already  heerd  it." 

And,  indeed,  within  half  an  hour  word  came  that 
the  old  man  must  have  the  infair  at  his  house  that 
night,  and  already  to  all  who  could  hear  he  had 
blown  welcome  on  the  wind. 

So,  at  dusk,  when  Jason,  on  the  circuit  rider's 
old  nag,  rode  through  camp  with  Mavis  on  a  pil 
lion  behind  in  laughing  acceptance  of  the  old 
pioneer  custom,  women  and  children  waved  at 

391 


THE  HEART  OF  THE  HILLS 

them  from  doorways  and  the  miners  swung  their 
hats  and  cheered  them  as  they  passed.  There  was 
an  old-fashioned  gathering  at  the  old  Hawn  home 
that  night.  Old  Aaron  and  young  Aaron  and 
many  Honeycutts  were  there;  the  house  was 
thronged,  fiddles  played  old  tunes  for  nimble  feet, 
and  Hawns  and  Honeycutts  ate  and  drank  and 
made  merry  until  the  morning  sun  fanned  its 
flames  above  the  sombre  hills. 

But  before  midnight  Jason  and  Mavis  fared 
forth  pillion-fashion  again.  Only,  Jason  too  rode 
sidewise  every  now  and  then  that  he  might  clasp 
her  with  one  arm  and  kiss  her  again  and  again 
under  the  smiling  old  moon.  Through  the  lights 
and  noise  of  the  mighty  industry  that  he  would 
direct,  they  passed  and  climbed  on. 

Soon  only  lights  showed  that  their  grimy  little 
working  world  was  below.  Soon  they  stood  on 
the  porch  of  their  own  little  home.  To  them  there 
the  mighty  on-sweeping  hills  sent  back  their  own 
peace,  God-guarded  and  never  to  be  menaced  by 
the  hand  of  man.  And  there,  clasped  in  each 
other's  arms,  their  spirits  rushed  together,  and 
with  the  spiral  of  smoke  from  their  own  hearth 
stones,  went  upward. 


392 


Mavis  on  a  pillion  behind  in  laughing  acceptance  of  the  old  pioneer 
custom 


XLVIII 

/^ENTLY  that  following  midsummer  the  old 
^*  president's  crutch  thumped  the  sidewalk 
leading  to  the  college.  Between  the  pillars  of  the 
gateway  he  paused,  lifted  his  undimmed  keen  blue 
eyes,  and  more  gently  still  the  crutch  thumped  on 
the  gravelled  road  as  he  passed  slowly  on  under 
the  trees.  When  he  faced  the  first  deserted  build 
ing,  he  stopped  quite  still.  The  campus  was  de 
serted  and  the  buildings  were  as  silent  as  tombs. 
That  loneliness  he  had  known  many,  many  years; 
but  there  was  a  poignant  sorrow  in  it  now  that 
was  never  there  before,  for  only  that  morning  he 
had  turned  over  the  reins  of  power  into  a  pair 
of  younger  hands.  The  young  men  and  young 
women  would  come  again,  but  now  they  would  be 
his  no  longer.  There  would  be  the  same  eager 
faces,  dancing  eyes,  swift  coming  and  going,  but 
not  for  him.  The  same  cries  of  greeting,  the  tramp 
of  many  feet,  shouts  from  the  playgrounds — but 
not  for  his  ears.  The  same  struggle  for  supremacy 
in  the  class-room — but  not  for  his  favor  and  his 
rewarding  hand.  That  hand  had  all  but  upraised 
each  building,  brick  by  brick  and  stone  by  stone. 
He  had  started  alone,  he  had  fought  alone,  and  in 

393 


THE  HEART  OF  THE  HILLS 

spite  of  his  Scotch  shrewdness,  business  sagacity, 
indomitable  pluck  and  patience,  and  a  nation 
wide  fame  for  scholarship,  the  fight  had  been  hard 
and  long.  He  had  won,  but  the  work  was  yet 
unfinished,  and  it  was  his  no  longer.  For  a  little 
while  he  stood  there,  and  John  Burnham,  coming 
from  his  class-room  with  a  little  bag  of  books,  saw 
the  still  figure  on  crutches  and  paused  noiselessly 
on  the  steps.  He  saw  the  old  scholar's  sensitive 
mouth  quiver  and  his  thin  face  wrenched  with  pain, 
and  he  guessed  the  tragedy  of  farewell  that  was 
taking  place.  He  saw  the  old  president  turn  sud 
denly,  limp  toward  the  willow-trees,  and  Burn- 
ham  knew  that  he  could  not  bear  at  that  moment 
to  pass  between  those  empty  beloved  halls.  And 
Burnham  watched  him  move  under  the  willows 
along  the  edge  of  the  quiet  pond,  watched  him 
slowly  climbing  a  little  hill  on  the  other  side  of  the 
campus,  and  then  saw  him  wearily  pass  through  his 
own  gate — home.  He  wished  that  the  old  scholar 
could  know  how  much  better  he  had  builded  than 
he  knew;  could  know  what  an  exchange  and 
clearing-house  that  group  of  homely  buildings  was 
for  the  human  wealth  of  the  State.  And  he 
wondered  if  in  the  old  thoroughbred's  heart  was 
the  comfort  that  his  spirit  would  live  on  and  on  to 
help  mould  the  lives  of  generations  unborn,  who 
might  perhaps  never  hear  his  name. 

There  was  a  youthful  glad  light  in  John  Burn- 
ham's  face  when  he  turned  his  back  on  the  de- 

394 


THE  HEART  OF  THE  HILLS 

serted  college,  for  he,  too,  was  on  his  way  at  last 
to  the  hills — and  St.  Hilda.  As  he  swept  through 
the  Blue-grass  he  almost  smiled  upon  the  passing 
fields.  The  betterment  of  the  tobacco  troubles 
was  sure  to  come,  and  only  that  summer  the 
farmer  was  beginning  to  realize  that  in  the  end 
the  seed  of  his  blue-grass  would  bring  him  a  better 
return  than  the  leaf  of  his  troublesome  weed-king. 
There  were  groaning  harvests  that  summer  and 
herds  of  sheep  and  hogs  and  fat  cattle.  There  was 
plenty  of  wheat  and  rye  and  oats  and  barley  and 
corn  yet  coming  out  of  the  earth,  and,  as  woodland 
after  woodland  reeled  past  his  window,  he  realized 
that  the  trees  were  not  yet  all  gone.  Perhaps  after 
all  his  beloved  Kentucky  would  come  back  to  her 
own,  and  there  was  peace  in  his  grateful  heart. 

Two  nights  later,  sitting  on  the  porch  of  her 
little  log  cabin,  he  told  St.  Hilda  about  Gray  and 
Marjorie,  as  she  told  him  about  Mavis  and  Jason 
Hawn.  Gray  and  Jason  had  gone  back,  each  to 
his  own,  having  learned  at  last  what  Mavis  and 
Marjorie,  without  learning,  already  knew — that 
duty  is  to  others  rather  than  self,  to  life  rather  than 
love.  But  John  Burnham  now  knew  that  in  the 
dreams  of  each  girl  another  image  would  live  al 
ways;  just  as  always  Jason  would  see  another's 
eyes  misty  with  tears  for  him  and  feel  the  com 
forting  clutch  of  a  little  hand,  while  in  Gray's  heart 
a  wood-thrush  would  sing  forever. 

And,  looking  far  ahead,  both  could  see  strong 
395 


THE  HEART  OF  THE  HILLS 

young  men  hurrying  up  from  the  laggard  Blue-grass 
into  the  lagging  hills  and  strong  young  men  hurry 
ing  down  from  them,  and  could  hear  the  heart  of 
the  hills  beating  as  one  with  the  heart  of  the  Blue- 
grass,  and  both  beating  as  one  with  the  heart  of 
the  world. 

THE    END 


396 


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